The rumble of thunder o’er far hill,
Nor a cloud in the sky, the wind is still.
Down the road on skyline bright,
A glint of shining light!
Thunder grows louder, the eyes do see,
Two thin lines, what can it be?
Two lines of Harleys side by side,
Only brothers out on a ride:
Wind in their hair, bugs in their teeth,
Only two wheels beneath their feet.
Sunburned faces, yet they don’t care,
For on these rides, their soul is bare.
Free in the breeze with ladies to please,
No finer days are these.
©Copyright June 24, 2002 by Steve Brandenburg