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“Death Star”
They’ve called you a piece of shit Black as the inside of your pipes No shine No sparkle No hint your owner is proud
But I know you, old lady No complaint when I give you reason You carry me a hundred miles an hour whenever I ask Or slog through cold rain and hot sand
And God you’re pretty
I’ve seen them look at you Scary bitch Those sinister dueling scars proof that You’ve been down the Long road the Long way And there’s nothing apologetic about the way you stand at the curb Lean as a stiletto Impatient to go
Shake yourself awake Carry me proud Around the chrome and the Slick paint and Electronic fuel injection and ABS brakes Of bikes that have been given no soul And no name That pack hesitant riders In crisp new leather and shiny boots Dreaming of going a hundred miles While you pass them by Tires not touching your shadow Nasty And dark Screaming your own hurricane
Winterhorse 2011
paustianh@eskridgeinc.com
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