Riders Poem by Jerry Pike

Tattoo underneath his gear,
Reads, death to all, they ride alone,
those sunset riders loose but cool,
descend in packs, a biker zone.

From ancient cults they grew en mass,
a swarming gang all sane folk feared,
those dirty patches on their arms,
unwashed, ill mannered, food filled beard.

Their mental dreams mix curse and beer,
they scare the women, half to death,
you’ll hear their motor, roaring by,
while putrid steam could be their breath.

Just watch them cruise, they know they’re hip,
and each that sees them, runs away,
so if you’re wise, you’ll steer well clear
when traffic wardens come to play.