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Motorbike

A Norfolk Biker's Lot

Us wild good-timers – Bill in biker’s leather
Has crashed his Triumph in the highway twice,
Ted keeps falling off in filthy weather
So I’m not riding out 'til all is fine and nice.

A biker's life is lived along the edge
Of savage rhythms and primeval urges,
We even feel it when him next door trims his hedge
And won’t sweep the clippings from the verges.

To hell with suburban platitudes,
We're on the move and man we gotta go.
But what is it that hunches on the gate and broods?
It seemed like a hawk but really it’s a crow.

The gang-bang’s over, us partygoers sleep beneath.
We’re not born to die on Mousehold Heath…