'Torn Leather Tearaway' by Martin Day
Torn Leather tearaway,
Rebel on the road.
Clutch slip, twist the grip,
Ditch the highway code.
Chain lash, engine thrash,
Rubber at the lights.
In my slip-stream there's a Super Dream,
So I blow him out of sight.
I strike fear in my leather gear
When I'm cruising through the town.
There's a Pigmobile on my rear wheel,
Driving like a clown.
With his blue light flashing bright,
Siren screaming in my ear.
The sparks fly, it's do or die,
'Coss I'm getting out of here.
Isle of Man, racing cam,
Footrest on the ground.
Wipe flies from my eyes.
Now turn up the sound.
What a ride, she's open wide,
But he's chasing like a hound.
Still on the run, I hit the ton.
The copper's loosing ground.
A driver turning, not discerning,
Not enough road to share.
Broadside; car; collide,
And I'm flying through the air.
There's a funny smell from the fires of Hell,
Apart from human souls.
Something's on the boil, its burning oil!
'Coss a biker burns like coal.
It's a bad dream, "Where's my machine."
I'm screaming while I char.
"Please God appear, and get me out of here,"
"And I might even buy a car."© M Day 1979