Low Grunts and gasoline greedy grooves.
Handlebars like sworn moustaches and horns.
Base of the neck intimidating old gang tattoos.
The nast ink in triple sixes and evil fauns.
Blasts from the revs sound out sudden storms.
From head to foot the rider is leather clad.
Speeding across some road as if airborn.
With every intention of carrying the stigma of bad.
Does the air that rips, calm his speed hungry spirit?
Does the noise of the motor, comfort his violent mind?
Or is it all just a subtle need for adventure?
Yes the wind ripping apart is his soul´s song less lyrics.
The motor is the closest thing to his heart he can find.
Some men are born to be the road´s mad creatures.
Handlebars like sworn moustaches and horns.
Base of the neck intimidating old gang tattoos.
The nast ink in triple sixes and evil fauns.
Blasts from the revs sound out sudden storms.
From head to foot the rider is leather clad.
Speeding across some road as if airborn.
With every intention of carrying the stigma of bad.
Does the air that rips, calm his speed hungry spirit?
Does the noise of the motor, comfort his violent mind?
Or is it all just a subtle need for adventure?
Yes the wind ripping apart is his soul´s song less lyrics.
The motor is the closest thing to his heart he can find.
Some men are born to be the road´s mad creatures.
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