Category: Poetry & Lyrics

A call-to-arms bold riders sent
From Carolina’s coast:
One hundred showed, one hundred rode
To save what matters most.

The puppets of the duffers schemed
To take our rights away;
So a hundred rode, one hundred showed
To charge into the fray.

The skies were gray and cloudy at
The dawning of the fight;
But a hundred showed, one hundred rode
Through rain and cold, in spite.

Beaver’s lair, they gathered there,
At high noon lines they formed;
Then a hundred rode, one hundred showed
The mettle for the storm.

North they rolled, their route foretold,
King’s Highway was betrayed;
Still a hundred rode, one hundred showed
No fear along the way.

Into a blue-light gauntlet, lined
With patriots wishing well;
One hundred showed, by how they rode,
Their spirit would not fail.

Then from all sides at once they came,
The cruisers wheeled and swerved
‘Til no more rode; but a hundred showed
Their steel of will and nerve.

The battle for our liberties
Goes on throughout the land;
But a hundred showed, when a hundred rode,
How all can make a stand.

–IronBoltBruce

Dedicated to Tripp

Sunday morning early comes
This sweltering summer’s day;
Chrome and coffee polished off
As bike and rider wake,

And rumble off to clubhouse for
A changing of the brew;
Black vests in formation–fast
and tight–a loud tribute.

Iron horses, hundreds strong,
Come thund’ring through the gate;
Sleeping souls on notice, fallen
Biker nears his fate.

A mile of gleaming metal lines
The circle and the park;
Out of saddles, boots hit brick
And make for chapel’s heart.

Members of the Club stand post,
Proud brothers in the wind;
Shaded eyes the tears disguise,
And loss they feel within.

Friends and family pay respects
To biker and his mate;
Praises made and prayers raised,
Blues legends resonate.

Final words and kisses, then
The pipes’ Amazing Grace;
Souls of bike and rider seek
Eternal resting place.

Sunday morning early comes
This sweltering summer’s day;
One more rider, Heaven bound,
Roars through the Pearly Gates.

–IronBoltBruce

I ride mine, for a motorcycle’s
Meant to ride, you see;
Not hauled around by trailer,
I keep rubber on the street.

I ride mine when I go to work,
And home again each day;
Or just to twist the throttle hard,
And blow my cares away.

I ride mine through cold winter winds,
And showers of the spring;
Baking in the summer sun
‘Til autumn’s cool refrain.

I ride mine through the glare of day,
And darkness of the night;
Sole form of conveyance, never
Caged, or bound in flight.

I ride mine in the cities, ’round
The counties, o’r the states;
Cruise across the country,
Tour wherever asphalt takes.

I ride mine for the friendship of
My brothers in the wind;
Trusting they will have my back,
On me they can depend.

I ride mine for the freedom found
In open, empty roads;
Pure exhilaration with each
Turn as curve unfolds.

My life is in the saddle ’til
I meet my mortal end;
Then through the gates of Heaven or Hell
I ride mine once again.

— Ironbolt Bruce

Recorded by Johnny Punish.
Original lyrics from “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die Rag”
a.k.a. “Vietnam Rag” by Country Joe McDonald,
revised and updated by IronBoltBruce.

Yo, wake up texters, listen in,
Uncle Sam’s after more boogeymen;
Dubya left Barack in a terrible jam
Way over in Afghanistan.
So put down your iPhone and pick up a gun,
We’re gonna have a whole lotta fun.

And it’s one, two, three,
What are we fighting for?
Not freedom or our fellow man,
Next stop’s Afghanistan;
And it’s five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain’t no need to wonder why,
For peak oil, we’re all gonna die.

Well come on, McChrystal, let’s move fast;
Your big chance has come at last.
Gotta kill all those towel heads –
Though Muslims ain’t who we should dread.
Our robber barons, they’re the ones
Who blew the Towers to kingdom come.

And it’s one, two, three,
What are we fighting for?
Not freedom or our fellow man,
Next stop’s Afghanistan;
And it’s five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain’t no need to wonder why,
For peak oil, we’re all gonna die.

Huh!

Well, come on Wall Street, don’t move slow,
Since 9-1-1, it’s go-go-go.
There’s plenty good money to be made
Supplying both sides with the tools of the trade.
Just hope if they grab a Pakistani bomb,
They drop it on Dick Cheney’s lawn.

And it’s one, two, three,
What are we fighting for?
Not freedom or our fellow man,
Next stop’s Afghanistan.
And it’s five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain’t no need to wonder why,
For peak oil, we’re all gonna die.

Well, come on mothers throughout the land,
Send your child to Afghanistan.
Come on fathers, don’t hesitate,
Send ’em off before it’s too late.
Be the first one on your block
To have your kid come home in a box.

And it’s one, two, three
What are we fighting for?
Not freedom or our fellow man,
Next stop’s Afghanistan.
And it’s five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain’t no need to wonder why,
For peak oil, we’re all gonna die.

–with apologies to Country Joe MacDonald
( http://www.countryjoe.com/feelmus.htm )