Grumble grum rumble goes the engine of that Harley
Ridin' the post apocalyptic landscape past fields of barley
Burnt with the fires of destruction. She wears
Black leather boots with steel tips. I swear
I've never been slackjawed and wordless before,
But the sight of that blonde, unwashed hair,
Clenched teeth, firm jaw, her grip on the handlebar
Took hold of my imagination and set it running
Like the motor of that bike, more than a machine,
It was part of her, part of a dream
Set in motion in my head like the silvery shiny spokes
Of that Harley’s turning wheels. Is this real?

She approached my position with a confident stride,
I know emotion is usually assigned to women,
But I just about cried in fear as her mouth opened,
Her hand grabbed the shirt covering my pounding chest,
“Come here you wimp”, my limbs hung limp,
And she kissed me with those lips salty and crusty.
The fear and awe mixed in pure ecstacy.
Then she dropped me to the ground, whirled around,
Saddled that horse, Turned the key,

Grumble grum rumble went the engine of that Harley
Ridin’ the post apocalyptic landscape past fields of barley
Burnt with the fires of her passion. Her hair streaming
Behind her, exhaust rising like incense
From the motor of that bike, more than a machine,
And the question I’m left with, Was it real or a dream?