By Chris Zagst
Faster they sped like Kerouacís boys.
Their fists in the air, astride knucklehead toys.
Passing a bottle of wine in between,
Riding so fucking close, one hell of a scene.
No worry or care even enters their minds.
They roll on the throttles and leave it behind.
The shit is just that, no reason to take it.
No change of clothes packed, just tools and a blanket.
Only one thing pursues them and follows too close
That bastard called Ďageí that neither one chose.
Two knuckleheads ridiní for the time of their life
And leaviní behind expectations and strife.
So onward they blast living life on the edge,
Hitting juke joints and brothels and making a pledge,
To never give in to demands of the man.
No motherfucker will screw with their failure to plan.
Itís not a choice made by most in this day.
Life of adulthood can get in the way.
No money or job can bring them more joys
Than brotherhood shared riding knucklehead toys.