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Rated: 13+ · Lyrics · Other · #1192281
A "Why can't we be friends?" for the grease-monkey sub-culture.
American Biker

Long hair and leathers on American steel,
ride alone and they always will
Head bandanas with chaps on their legs,
sleep at the roadside with their feet on the pegs
Wrenches and oil is the name of his game,
boring the motor – chopping the frame
Only working enough to get his wheels on the road,
now he’s packing his bags while he’s ditching his load.
**
Red headed banker, she’s not what she seems,
dressed up Sportster, a hitchhikers dream
Wears a tattoo at the top of her thigh,
she hides from her friends that says “Live free or Die.”
Fiery vixen on a pony of chrome,
she’ll take you to bed but you’ll wake up alone
Come Monday morning she’s back on the job
she’s writing up loans but dreaming ‘bout that Hog.
**
Kids on Katanas pulling wheelies for looks,
don’t care about school, classes, teachers, or books.
North and south / back and forth on the strips,
only reason to stop is for a cheerleaders lips
Racing them Ricers for a piece of the pie,
their parents are screaming they don’t understand why.
Got no money for things, too young to get in the bar
so their only entertainment is that CBR

Now friends it don’t matter what you ride on the street,
give the bikers salute everytime that you meet
We’re all brothers at the end of the day,
Blue Knights, Hells’ Angels, or the CMA

**Wheels spinning round and round, country to city and city to town
Push the pistons and rattle the frame, once you’re a biker you’re never the same.
© Copyright 2006 Aikideshi (aikideshi at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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