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Sunday Rider

He buttons down the snaps on his slick-legged chaps
And he’s slipping on his jacket of hide;
He’s got it all together in his black-dyed leather
And he’s gonna take a heck of a ride!

The women and their children are a-hoping, heaven willing,
They’ll be clearing from the streets in time;
And maybe they’re mistook but, judging from the look,
His sickle’s riding on a wave of crime!

As if expecting death, those who witness hold their breath
When he shuts the sickle down beside the church.
He kills it with a cough as the gloves come slipping off,
And he steps aside his mighty metal perch.

Like a snake that sheds it’s skin to reveal the one within,
Leather zips and slides and snaps as in a song;
And the evil riding wonder who arrived amid the thunder
Turns around to face the faces of the throng.

I don’t know really whether it’s the sickle or the leather
That would cause the people’s judgment to be blurred;
But in suit and silken tie he seems quite the harmless guy,
Our good bishop has arrived to preach the word!

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.

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