Hopped Up and Speedin’ on the ‘65 Panhead
By Chris Zagst, “Swamp Weasel”, FL
He shot across the desert at a break-neck speed.
The ’65 panhead, screamin’, chromed, classic steed.
Suicide jockey wound out in the tranny.
Needin’ some mercy, seat hard on the fanny.
Interstate 8 to Yuma thundering west past Gila.
Hopped up on barbies washed down with tequila.
Rubber band wound tight around the antique throttle
Holds his speed as he sips from a hot Cuervo bottle.
7 hard days of riding and sleeping on the ground.
Greasy spoon dinners and swindlers abound.
A Buck knife digs in to the side of his calf
Concealed in his boot for protection’s behalf.
He cracks open the gas cap, checkin’ on the gas.
And screws back on the Reaper of heavy, casted brass.
Not much left so he’ll be stopping pretty soon,
To gas up the tank and mechanically commune.
He’ll conclude this trip on the next short leg.
With a pocket full of tickets, too many times pegged.
Sun baked lips smilin’ thinking about that pretty little lass
Out there in Yuma with the nice, tight ass.
It’s all that keeps him goin’ in these days of his runnin’
Often too tired to know if he’s comin’ or goin’,
But she’s there with refreshment and a shower made for two,
And a soft bed where he can rest whenever they are through.