By Max

A bike show is a special place
where every man a dream can face
they've got so many there to see
in polished chrome with mural frieze
Wild custom parts, outlandish bars
and every chopper is a star
All polished up, reflecting glare
a tribute to attention's care
I know these bikes are pretty toys
and everyone admires them so
but when the day draws to an end
how many home on trailers go?
As hordes of men of humble vein
can barely from their dreams refrain
How many look's with lusty eye
convey the thought "That bike and I
would look so good, would fit so well:
I wonder if that bloke would sell?"
I myself, ambitions son
would rather dreams that are hard won
pulled out of steel
by force of will
And worked on by yourself until
the dream that sits beneath your arse
Embodies more than simply class
then ridden daily bout the place
the road grime and the bugs to face
The true stars of the show I feel
are bikes out in the parking lot
that're ridden here by Bikers real
and never lost the asphalts feel
The stone-chipped and the slightly dinged
with dripping oil and all
and scratches on their bodies show
where riders took a fall,
No flashy bits, no extra parts
yet every day these veterans start
no dragstrip heroes, not by far,
more often found outside a bar
no pampering, no excess cost
are given to these bikes
yet still their pride roars out of pipes
a tribute to what's right
These bikes will show their mettle true
when late this winters night
they fire to take their masters home
'fore dawns accusing light.

The Bond Between

By Max