The Tasmanian Devil
The New Ocean House, back in sixty-eight,
Worked as a busboy, left that night late.
A very dark night, dark of the moon.
Might have been May, may have been June.
I climbed on my bike, started its thunder.
Sped off wildly, like I was boy wonder.
I flew through the streets, heading to Lynn.
Nice that night, nice night for a spin.
Spun down the streets like the Tasmanian devil.
Not much of an IQ or intelligence level.
I stopped to talk with my frazzled friends.
Said I'd be back before the night ends.
Tore down my street in a roaring rally.
Killed the engine to coast through the alley,
Respect for the neighbors, their peace and quiet.
What happens next is kind of a riot.
Locked up my bike, locked up the door.
Left my white jacket on the tar floor.
I turned to see the blue lights flashing.
Did not think twice, just found myself dashing.
Jumped a fence and ran down the street.
I heard the sounds of their running feet.
They couldn't see the three barrels of trash,
Ran into them with a funny loud crash.
Got to the corner, my friends still there,
Listening to their laughter filling the night air.
The cops pulled up and asked us who.
We told them it wasn't someone we knew.
They left.
Copyright © David Watson | Year Posted 2007
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