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