Sundays Ride

Rubber to dirt,
All day long
with the devils
I Flirt.

Bark Busters
do their Job,
Muscles
start to throb.

Grab that throttle
There are no bottles.

Snag a gear
on a straight
Cliff!
it could end your fate.

Roots rocks logs and creek
for sixteen solid weeks

Trees turn to a blur
every now and then
You'll Catch a glimpse of fur.

Lodge poles
turn to spears
they are
your worst fear

The sun going down
the day's nearing end
of with the safety crown
and I rest for next weekend