A "Why can't we be friends?" for the grease-monkey sub-culture. |
American Biker Long hair and leathers on American steel, ride alone and they always will Head bandanas with chaps on their legs, sleep at the roadside with their feet on the pegs Wrenches and oil is the name of his game, boring the motor – chopping the frame Only working enough to get his wheels on the road, now he’s packing his bags while he’s ditching his load. ** Red headed banker, she’s not what she seems, dressed up Sportster, a hitchhikers dream Wears a tattoo at the top of her thigh, she hides from her friends that says “Live free or Die.” Fiery vixen on a pony of chrome, she’ll take you to bed but you’ll wake up alone Come Monday morning she’s back on the job she’s writing up loans but dreaming ‘bout that Hog. ** Kids on Katanas pulling wheelies for looks, don’t care about school, classes, teachers, or books. North and south / back and forth on the strips, only reason to stop is for a cheerleaders lips Racing them Ricers for a piece of the pie, their parents are screaming they don’t understand why. Got no money for things, too young to get in the bar so their only entertainment is that CBR Now friends it don’t matter what you ride on the street, give the bikers salute everytime that you meet We’re all brothers at the end of the day, Blue Knights, Hells’ Angels, or the CMA **Wheels spinning round and round, country to city and city to town Push the pistons and rattle the frame, once you’re a biker you’re never the same. |