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It looms in the distance, it calls you so clear,
It speaks to you softly so noone can hear,
On the side it stands, jealous, of the roads strong allure,
It offers you solace, redemption, a cure
For all that is ailing, each chronic attack,
The cramp in your foot, the pain in your back.

That old hardtail's making it easy to choose,
The song of the sirens, those old Roadhouse Blues.

Larger and brighter, its lights draw you hard,
Your fatigue it is winning, you play your trump card.
The brakes are your tonic, the balm that you crave,
As they aid your escape: your reprieve from the grave.
In minutes the barstool your confession will hear,
Your act of contrition, an annointment of beer,

That pours from the tap of your own private brew,
That lullabye liquid, those old Roadhouse Blues.

Your bike slinging gravel, you grind to a halt.
The window sign neon hawks barley and malt.
Your legs respond slowly, the miles take their toll.
You gingerly stand as your eyes start to roll,
To scan your surroundings, the old buildings face,
Its quaint rustic charm is not hard to embrace.

The music drifts slowly, extracting its dues,
It feeds your addiction, those old Roadhouse Blues.

As always, you wonder, what wooden walls hide?
With careless abandon you venture inside.
Heads turn and regard you, a stranger, What now?
Can you be the devil? an angel? and how,
Did you find them lurking, engulfed by their fear?
Their pulses they quicken, you order a beer.

You know that they're listening to verses they choose,
Their own painful lyrics, those old Roadhouse Blues.

Your leather is dusty, the juke box laments,
It seems that it knows you, the times that you've spent,
Viewing and skewing your thoughts of the past,
The Bikers dilemna, have you at long last,
Confronted your demons? Their faces seem clear.
They seek an accounting, the time it draws near.

They'll find you and bind you at a time that they choose,
Melodies unforgiving, these old Roadhouse Blues.

The beer glass, a prism, window to your soul,
It highlights your sins, as it takes full control.
It shows you the present, the future, the past.
You wallow, self-pity seduces you fast.
The comfort of anguish, through misery's gate,
Your mind starts to wander, surrenders, but wait.

The road, your grey lover, she won't let you lose.
She coaxes you home from these old Roadhouse Blues.

Recrimination, melancholic your scorn,
Gives way to the future, a bright sunny morn.
Remorse prosecutes you, but you beat the charge,
With strength and with courage you deign to live large.
The road , as it beckons, absolves you from sin.
She lusts for your headlight, your tires once again.

The past or the future, its now you must choose.
You head for the highway, no more Roadhouse Blues.



Copyright 2002
Bruce "Bulldog" Dowling

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