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The Stroker

The shadows from the moonlight
Are cast upon the ground;
He slips out from his cabin
And walks without a sound.

He pulls aside the creaking door
That leads into the shack,
And in the dark his Harley waits,
Silent, cold, and black.

He pushes it to the winding road
That descends the darkened peak;
He coasts on down without a sound,
Graceful, cool, and sleek.

At the bottom of the mountain,
Just outside of town,
He kicks the sickle into gear
And lays the rubber down.

He steams a bead down State Street,
He flies a left on Main;
It’s midnight in October,
The Stroker rides again!

Hundred cubes of breathing steel
Roar between his legs;
The speedo needle takes a right
And rests upon the peg.

Another left on Third Street,
He screams right by the bar
Where drunkards watch him flying
And wonder where they are.

The Sheriff sits inside his Dodge,
The Harley streaks on by;
The Sheriff puts the pedal down,
The Dodge begins to fly.

The Sheriff’s tried a thousand times
To bring the Stroker in;
No matter what he tries to do
He never seems to win.

The Stroker heads for mountains,
Like every time before;
The Harley’s really thumpin’,
But capable of more.

They dove into those mountain roads
Like gulls into the seas;
The Sheriff lost it on a curve
And plowed a field of trees.

By chance it was the very curve
Where, just ten years ago,
A stranger died when he tried
To lay his Harley low.

The Dodge just covered the hillside;
The Sheriff was never found.
And now, at night, ’bout twelve o’clock
You hear a different sound.

The Midnight Stroker blasts through town,
And, strange as strange can get,
On his tail’s that Sheriff’s Dodge,
“I’ll get that Stroker yet!”

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

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



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