Listen my listeners And you shall all hear, Of a weekend I filled With Harley’s and beer. November eleventh, And seventy degrees, The southerly wind Brought a warm gentle breeze. Ninety-four octane, I topped off the tank, Then into the saddle All cozy I sank. The ports all injected Directly with fuel; No warm-up, no waiting For a hesitant mule. Out of the driveway And into the street, Through every last gear That I shift with my feet. Through corridors painted In the colors of fall, I followed the urge Of primordial call. I rode ‘til I stopped At a tavern I’d spot, Imbibing the spirit, Both liquid and not. The flavoring local Of stories I’d hear, As I rested a moment While drinking a beer. Then back to the steed And its cylinders twin, And encased in my helmet, A happy man’s grin.