Thursday, 28 July 2011

Even Scooter Trash Be Getting Poetic Sometimes

Five volumes don't lie. Bikers know the road can be lovely & loveless. Any good day on the asphalt is a best day; any bad day is the worst. Sometimes hog wranglers live epic poems. Thanks Sorez! Thanks Wicked Bitch! Please don't kill us!

This Is A Bad Day.

i'm a rippin back the throttle, it spread,

off this fat rear tyre,

til its lost all its tread,

then i'm crusin down the highway,

splattered flie's on my face,

tank's a gettin empty,

in this deserted place,

its starts with a splutter,

a jolt n a jerk,

n rolls to a stop,

no juice,not a splirt,

startin to push it,

but its gettin bit heavy,

but whats that coming?,

a 58 chevy,

thought my luck was a changin,

but it drives on by,

in to the distant,

oooh- i could cry,

im pushin n im heavin,

tryin to get me to the next town,

to fill her up,

til she's almost drown,

but i'm thirsty n hungry,

n my knee's are gettin weak,

my soles have worn through,

n my ankles are beginning to squeak,

my arms fell off a while ago,

im pushin with my head,

im now walkin on stumps,

my feet i put in my pocket cos theyve totally shred,

my bike has just fell to bits,

my hair has just fell out too,

no arms,no legs,no hair,

n even my leather has has worn through,

my sacks a wearin thin,

my tackles just fell off,

n my nuts go bouncing down the road,

as i take one last cough,

thats me had it,

then i take my last breath,

so i thought,three years later im still lying there,

for that bloody thing called death.


by max

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