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Poem

I can't handle pretenders.
Something someone is not.
No 'spect for a paper gangster.
Living a fake life until caught.

A lawyer watching Son's of Anarchy.
Blue jeans with vest, will be looking phat.
Uber delivers him to a Harley shop,
wearing golf pants and Fedora hat.

He plops down the gold card,
for the latest Heritage classic.
Then next door for "biker" duds,
leather chaps and leather jacket.

The look, not yet complete.
Fake tail and studded earrings.
Must have a wallet on a chain,
tall black boots, stylin', and profiling.

He thinks he is now a biker.
No one will ever know.
The look is now complete.
Time to hop on that bad bike and blow.

He admires himself in the mirror.
His real look put on the shelf.
Needs some place to ride,
to show off his new big bad self.

A chick magnet and envy of men.
The first stop, Buster & Dave's.
Once a windscreen is added,
to shield the wind a real biker craves.

He's never ridden a bike,
on a winding highway at night.
Never felt rain hitting your face,
like small bullets blocking your sight.

Never set points with a matchbook.
Never kickstarted, or jockey shifted.
He thinks you just press and go,
A fake hombre who thinks he's gifted.

He is the King of the Road.
A big bad biker dude.
All his courtroom adversaries,
know they're over and screwed.

Bad biker barely misses the bumper.
After the car in front stops hard.
Breaks into a sweat gets the shakes,
Has a small mishap, now forever scarred.

He pushed the bike to a Stop and Go.
Never known such anguish and fear.
Already done with the biker life,
never even got out of third gear.

Can't handle the pretenders.
Something someone is not.
No 'spect for a paper gangster.
Get back in your Range Rover, big shot.

R. S. Morris

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