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a biker poem by Uncle Roy Yelverton of TheCarolinaRider.com
Headlights danced in th’ parkin’ lot, rumbling pipes sang mellow and sweet. Harleys were backed in side by each, all up and down th’ street. Th’ scooter joint was jumpin’, with bikers three deep to th’ bar. A skinny dude in a three-man band was wailin’ out some wild guitar.
Now I ain’t taw’n ‘bout no fern bar for RUBS; in this dive, th’ bros were for real. Most had paid dues of bullsh!t an’ abuse, and had mixed their blood with asphalt and steel. They wore doo-rags, leather hats, and myriad tats; Levis, and leather vests. Patches and pins, and hopeful grins, for th’ bad-@ss biker bitches with big bubble breasts.
A mossy-back old biker, with a lifetime fulla cool Watched a young-blood dude, who was ackin’ a fool. In life, and experience, their gap was so wide You couldn't cover it in less than a three day ride.
One had a million miles under his ass, one a road rookie, try’na show some class. The graybeard was a road-dog; spent his whole life chasing th’ sun. The kid had ridden to two local swap-meets, an’ been on three ‘poker runs’.
Th’ young boy was drinkin’ a little too hard, an’ laughin’ a little too loud. Fulla piss and pride, not to be denied; and a yen to stand out in the crowd. The moss-back looked on thoughtfully, noting the whelp’s haughty air and strut. When a flash of rage, at the heartlessness of age, hit him like a boot in the gut.
As he pondered, his mind unwound the years, to another time and place. When a brash young cock, hard as a rock, wore the old dreamer’s face. When no bro on the street was as cool as him, no scooter as bad as his ride.
He leaned hard, he rode fast, lived each day like his last; driven by a force he couldn’t describe. Drugs an’ booze, hot bikes an’ hotter cooze; long runs an’ rock ‘n roll; Sworn to fun, loyal to none. Even Satan shunned this rebel soul.
But now his waist was thicker, his ass startin’ ta look like a pear. And th’ pain in his back on the long ride, is gettin’ a little harder to bear. An’ he can’t hold as much tequila now, before his mind starts to go. An’ sometimes he misses the things he’s missed, but he never lets it show.
He wondered; ‘could this ‘new-meat’ stand the heat? Would he ride in the cold and rain? Would he learn how long, and how hard to party, would he know when to refrain?
Could he dodge the cages, and critters and curves that surely would hinder his way? Could he handle the temptations of hot biker chicks? Could he stand the price that love makes a man pay?
Would his quick heart taste a cold steel blade? Would a bullet find his brain? Would he die ‘neath the wheels of a hungry cage, too wasted to feel the pain? Would a woman steal him from the road, or the road cause her love to wane?
Now I don’t know much, but I know Life ain’t easy; I guess it’s supposed ta be hard. You must take a stand, and play your hand; or try to sneak a card.
One path leads ya one way, one beckons ya another, Two ways to go is as good as it gets; Be a face in the crowd, or a road-hooked brother.
It’s more than a tat, a t-shirt an’ leather hat, An’ one day ya might have to decide; Should ya? Or could ya? Are ya dead on sure, you really wonna Ride to Live, an’ Live to Ride?