Blowing In The Wind Poem by Robert Edgar Burns

I have driven Harley's most of my adult life.
But when I think of days gone by before I met my wife,
I remember the first bike I built, along with my dear dad.
A 1953 Indian Chief, and boy that bike was grand.

My dad said it would get me wherever I need to go.
53 was the same year I was born, I hated to drive slow.
It got me back and forth to school and I was glad it did.
It turned the heads of all the girls but I was just a kid.

It's motor was 80 cubic inch, and it had Amal carbs.
It had a 6 volt kicker, that started with one kick start.
It had half skirt fenders that were big enough for me.
And the model was Roadmaster, with S&S motor 4 speed.

The wind would blow my dark brown hair every time I flew.
Sometimes I gave friends rides which I wasn't allowed to do.
I wore a black flight jacket, from my uncle who flew in war.
And now that I am older, I miss it more and more.

A pickup truck had followed me one bright and sunny day.
He tried to pass on a narrow street and knocked me far away.
The bike landed beside me and it almost pinned me down.
The truck sped away real fast while I lay on the ground.

I wore my helmet that fateful day and it nearly split in two.
I was bleeding and groggy, not knowing just what to do.
So I picked the bike up and started it, it started on the first kick.
I caught up to the trucker, a drunk old redneck hick.

I flagged a Trooper passing by and boy that was pure luck.
Then watched as he cuffed the guy he dragged out of his truck.
When my father saw my face and arms and scarred up legs,
He told me he could fix the bike but I rode a bus each day.