SINCE BEFORE MY POP WAS BORN,
SHE RODE BESIDE MY GRANDPA
ON MANY A SHINING MORN’.
SHE WOULDNT TOUCH A HONDA
OR RICE SMOKE BELCHIN'SHIT,
BUT I'VE HEARD FOLKS SAY THAT HER MODEL “K”
WAS AS CLEAN AS YOU COULD GET.
GRANDPA HAD A KNUCKLEHEAD
AND TOGETHER THEY WOULD RIDE,
UNTIL HE KISSED A PETERBILT
AND BOUGHT THE FARM ONE NIGHT.
WHEN SHE GOT CLOSE TO SEVENTY
SHE DIDN'T RIDE AS MUCH,
BUT ALL THEIR BIKER BUDDIES
WOULD STOP BY TO KEEP IN TOUCH.
SHE'D PASSED OUT BREWS AND TALK OF RUNS,
AND RIDIN' WILD AND FREE,
AND THEY ALL ENJOYED THE STORIES
OF THE DAYS THAT USED TO BE.
SHE WENT TO BE WITH GRANDPA
ONE COLD AND RAINY NIGHT,
AND THE LINE OF BIKES FOR HER LAST RUN
STRETCHED CLEAR OUT OF SIGHT.
THE PARTY LASTED SEVERAL DAYS
OLD TALES WERE TOLD AGAIN
IT WAS A FITTING TRIBUTE
FROM ALL THEIR BIKER FRIENDS
NOW SOMETIMES IN THE SHINING MORN’
A RUMBLE COMES ON HIGH,
AS A KNUCKLEHEAD AND A MODEL “K”
GO PUTTIN' ACROSS THE SKY.
–Buckshot
