The Biker



Smoky was a biker,

He rode one all his life…

He always had a sweetheart,

But he never took a wife.



His first love when he fell,

Was for the bike he rode,

The places where he went,

And the stories that he told.


There were blondes and there were redheads,

Even brunettes who rode there,

Their arms clung tight around his waist,

While wind blew through their hair.



For Smoky had the magic touch,

And loved to pass out thrills,

Leaning deep into each curve,

As he explored new hills.


His Harley was his first true love,

And it was plain to see,

No woman could compete with it,

Nor even pry him free.


For Smoky sat astride his bike,

As if he was glued there,

Decked out in his leathers,

With a swagger, not a care.


But Fate had something else in mind,

And Smoky had no clue,

The day an Indian pulled long side,

Another bike brand new.


For just a few brief moments,

The bikes sat side by side,

For Smoky now was smitten

With the one who sat astride.


The Indian was a sleek machine,

It held a beauty fair,

With lines so sleek, so trim and neat,

Unspoken challenge there.


Suddenly both engines roared

With noise that was most deafening,

Onlookers who had gathered there,

Knew this for day of reckoning.


The Indian and the Harley,

Left in a cloud of dust,

Never to be seen again,

And doing what they must.


Riding off together,

Much like a matched pair,

Smoky on the Harley,

The Indian with beauty fair.


Many years have passed now,

And still there is made mention,

Of the Indian and the maiden

Who showed up with one intention.


To challenge Smoky to a race,

Until her task was done,

And she could look at Smoky then,

And say, ‘Hey, Dude…I won!’


©  2003  Loree (Mason) O’Neil

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