Motorcycle Mama

Flying leathers with the wind, engine roaring at top speed, black-gloved hands gripping handles, golden wings crown her glory, she's no brother, she's no angel, she's Motorcycle Mama, hot to go at green light, making heads turn at the unusual sight. Forty-five and still a looker, sitting on her black-leather throne, she's the queen of the asphalt, daring anyone to pass her, don't let her flawless skin and, sky-blue eyes deceive you, she's tough, she's rough, she's Motorcycle Mama, ain't that enough? Gypsy blood flows in her veins, home is where she rests for the night, she knows the greasy menus by heart, at all the truck stops along her route, men tip their hats as she stops by, paying respect to the leathered queen, standing six-feet tall in her boots, she sure is a sight to be seen. Her bike is her pal of many years, never letting her down, always faithful and ready to go, not like ex-husbands with broken vows, promising her diamonds and the moon, and who hung around for a while, riding her bike and eventually leaving, cause it wasn't their style.