“Old man’s Shovel”
By Buckshot
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The kick start pedal and my boot don’t fit,
I’m too damned old for this kick-start shit.
The Shovel’s cold so here I toil,
cause the crankcase is full of bled-down oil.
She finally fires and the oil relents,
and pukes a puddle from the crankcase vent.
But the idle smooths and the dry clutch sings,
and takes me back to other things.
Years ago on a desert run,
our brains were frying in the white-hot sun.
No helmets worn but our leathers rolled,
‘cause the desert night can sure get cold.
A big bonfire lit the night,
a joint was passed to make things right.
A radio blared with Jimi’s voice;
We rode to live ‘cause we had no choice.
The girls back then they came and went,
just spending a night in a biker’s tent.
Hippie clothes and flowered hair,
it sure was great to have them there.
The years rolled by and silence fell,
on the desert nights that we knew so well.
We all moved on to wives and cars,
and missed those nights under desert stars.
Now my hair is white and my time draws near,
but the engine’s rumble turns back the years.
I’ll take this old Shovel for one last ride,
‘cause the desert night’s waiting to draw me inside.
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