He’s in his fifties, yet leather-clad, his grey hair proves his years,
His tattoos long since faded, and his belly fat, from beers,
With chains, and studs and heavy boots, his presence here is awesome,
The patch upon his back is clear, he is an iron horseman,
Iron Horseman, iron Horseman, on your two wheeled steed,
In search of lost horizons, a wistful, restless breed,
Always riding to the future, in search of some deep truth,
Or chasing down the tattered fragments of your youth.
You’ll see him up the Ace Cafe, or at a bikers boozer,
He spends less on food and clothes, than he does upon his cruiser,
In his mind he’s easy rider, he’s Brando on the run,
Mad Max on the Highway, Terminator with a gun,
Iron Horseman, iron Horseman, on your two wheeled steed,
In search of lost horizons, a wistful, restless breed,
Always riding to the future, in search of some deep truth,
Or chasing down the tattered fragments of your youth.
His summers packed with ride-outs, just cruising with the HOG,
In a roaring stream of metal, they look a fearsome mob,
But behind the beard, and denims, the leather and the chrome,
Is a bloke who’s’ taking Christmas toys, to the local children’s home.
So when you sit in judgement, from your shiny, ivory tower,
On your dull commute to office land, where you wield such puny power,
Of the old bloke on his noisy bike, In his jacket, jeans and scarf,
Remember that he’s just chosen, to ride a different path
Mark Charlwood 2019©
