A Twist of the Wrist
By Pagan Preacher
A twist of the wrist sends me hurtling,
revs higher and stronger,
wheels rolling faster, spokes invisible,
wind rushing by faster, hair flowing free behind.
A twist of the wrist sends bar folk fleeing,
cold blue-black steel clicking,
brass and lead sliding home, ready to fly,
disrespector of the colors regretting, shipped out for new pants.
A twist of the wrist sends doe-eyed women sighing,
lusting for the rough rider,
open pipes unmistakeable advertisement,
the wetness on the p-pad just vacated be not from co-cola.
A twist of the wrist sends greetings,
salutes to brothers riding,
or a wave for aid from a broke down bro,
or a more traditional salute to the mindless cage or Jean-Darme.
A twist of the wrist sends suds flyin'
whether down yer hatch or across the room,
or popping a flustered pretty bar-maid's bra,
and better her button-flys when ye've rode her home.
© 2002 Preacher
Pagan Preacher 8-01-02
May not be reused without written permission of author.