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One fine afternoon, I decided soon, I'd rebuild that basket shovelhead.
My bro' said too, "What I would do, is bring that bitch back from the dead".
Parts were in boxes here, and coffee cans there, some lay strewn elsewhere.
Both in good cheer, we grabbed a beer, and collected all we found there.

We sorted it out, there was no doubt, that lot's of shit was missin'.
So we went down, to the the center of town, past winos, faggots kissin'.
I didn't look, cause I'd get shook, and want to pull my Glock out.
Ain't nothing worse, a man carrying a purse, especially with his cock out.

Against that backdrop, we made our stop. The local Harley dealer.
The parts clerk, who, with eyes so blue, looked like some sissy squealer.
"Can I help you sir?" This (him-or-her?) asked with a heightened eyebrow.
He glanced away, as if to say: Don't want to deal with you now!

"I have a list". With his limp wrist, he reviewed it with disdain.
He about dropped dead, "A shovelhead?" the word causing him such pain.
"I just don't know, about this, Bro'", he said with an arrogant air.
"Twin Cams are hot, your bike is not," leaving my list lying there.

"I'll have to ask". A disgusting task, it looked like he was loathing.
"In the meantime you, if you'd care to, can inspect our motor clothing".
"We've boots and hats, slick leathers that, look as if they've been out riding".
"Dress shirts and "T's", and if you please, some Harley coffee while deciding".

He pranced away, I heard him say, to somebody behind the wall there,
"There's two big guys", as he rolled his eyes, "that need some help with parts here".
A guy came out, and he, no doubt, had rode a shovel sometime.
Not like that fool, who owns a Buell, I'll bet, and don't know downtime.

This guy at last, got us squared away fast, the list caused him no problem.
He said, "OK, in about 7 days, we should have these parts, all of them".
We turned to go, and wouldn't you know, young "Elvis", trots back out now.
And tells me "Man, the real HOT plan, is to own a NEW bike, and how!".

"Shovelheads, are "fashion-dead", you should at LEAST own an Evo".
"If you want to be cool, than buy a Buell, I've got one, it's soooo Revo!".
"Its slick, its sleek, its neuvo Chic," he said, his voice excited.
"People stop and stare, when I get there, to big parties I'm invited".

As this jerk spoke, something awoke, deep within me things were boiling.
I grabbed his cheek, gave it a tweek, as he began recoiling.
I pulled him close, right nose-to-nose, and then I started saying,
"Now look here, son, I've just begun, to hate this "tune" you're playing".

"It takes a geek, to look real Chic, when on a scooter riding".
"Hell, don't you know? This "Biker Show" has rules that need abiding".
"The real HOT plan, is to be a MAN, no sissy, Hear me Laddy?",
"Your mama's a whore, and I'm not sure, but I just might be yo' Daddy!".

So I turned him loose, like crap through a goose, he hit the floor a-runnin'.
Out the front door, this son-of-a-whore, took off and started gunnin',
A sky blue Buell, this cretin fool, took off and pulled the wheel,
Up off the ground. He looked around, and heard his buddies squeal.

I noticed then, the other men, from parts had come to witness.
He gave a scowl, as they did howl, about his lack of mental fitness.
About that time, I heard a chime, from the Harley clock on display.
I figured then, time to say "when", time for me to call it a day.

As I turned to go, I heard "Hey Bro!", I looked and saw the parts guy.
He tossed a bag. What was this rag, when nothing here did I buy?
I pulled it out, he gave a shout, and said, "You called it right on!".
A shirt it was, I read it cause, at least it wasn't "nylon".

The shirt it said, as I quickly read, to see what it might show,
"OLD HARLEY RIDERS NEVER DIE", I smiled, waved, turned to go.


Copyright 2002
Bruce "Bulldog" Dowling

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