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Motorcycle Mama

Rating: 4.8
Flying leathers with the wind,
engine roaring at top speed,
black-gloved hands gripping handles,
golden wings crown her glory,
she's no brother, she's no angel,
she's Motorcycle Mama who is
hot to go at the green light,
making heads turn at the
unusual sight.

Forty-five and still a looker,
sitting on her black-leather throne,
she's the queen of the asphalt,
daring anyone to pass her,
don't let her flawless skin and
sky-blue eyes deceive you,
she's tough, she's rough,
she's Motorcycle Mama,
ain't that enough?

Gypsy blood flows in her veins,
home is where she rests for the night,
she knows the greasy menus by heart
at all the truck stops along her route,
men tip their hats as she stops by,
paying respect to the leathered queen,
standing six-feet tall in her boots,
she sure is a sight to be seen.

Her bike is her pal of many years,
never letting her down and
always faithful and ready to go,
not like ex-husbands with broken vows,
promising her diamonds and the moon,
and who hung around for a while,
riding her bike and eventually leaving
cause it wasn't their style.
Motorcycle Mama
Friday, May 27, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: folklore,miscellaneous,motorcycle
Sonia Walker 11 June 2016
Motorcycle Mama is a folk heroine of my imagination.
0 0 Reply
Sonia Walker 31 May 2016
Motorcycle Mama is waiting in the wings for more comments.
0 0 Reply

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