Weapon of Mass Production

A fire breathing, smoke belching, road hogging, diabolical statues symbol

I have money to burn and this is the all American, union built, steel dream that burns it

Stand back peasants!

This two and a half ton road warrior will make a widow out of any creature ignorant enough to step in its path

An air conditioned tank 

A weapon of mass production

Designed to burn crude in the most Refined Way

No Guilt Sucker!

This baby will consume your children’s and their children’s fare share of natural resources
You
Left
Unguarded  

It’s got over four-hundred cubic inches of internal combustion

Turning fresh air into poison for the rest of you mortals to breath

This Detroit-born-dinosaur, clad with chrome and lined with twenty yards of dead cow hide is my
Trophy

“Move over loser”

“I Own This Highway”

“Screw your carbon foot print”

“I’m covering you’re your tracks with a mountain of Black Ash”

Politically incorrect?
Please!  

Politicians made this machine possible

Politicians

Gave us the cheap fuel
To get us
Hooked

Quit pissing a moaning about yesterday

Take your grocery money and feed that beast

You’re addicted

I’m addicted

We’ll never stop 

It’s an archaic, obsolete, obnoxious, infectshese, poison producing, waste of recourses

I love mine!

And I’m driven’ it to “Hell”

Because I’m positive

That will be the last place

They’ll run out of

Sweet

“Gas-O-Line” 

A Vixen with a Heart of Steel

A V-twin, four speed, chrome spooked, chain driven, goddess of the highway  

A black lacquered, flamed mistress in a dark alley  

A buxom, wasp waisted, starlet  

A vixen
with a heart of steel 

And all the loyalty of a twenty dollar hooker  

You don’t own her

Or control her 

you don’t
Ride
Free 

and 

She’s nobody’s
Bay-bee 

You live to-SERVE-her 

Blurring the white line of the highway

or rusting away in the junk yard  

It’s all the same to her 

Like a bottle of whiskey

or a 44 magnum 

She was built for two things  

To give you unspeakable pleasure

or kick your sorry ass clean off this planet 

She has no soul 

And she’ll rob you of yours

quicker than a Wall Street Banker 

On a whim 

She’ll pitch you off her back 

On the steaming tarmac 

Into a busted pile of broken bones and twisted flesh 

Put your fear 

Your experience 

Your 

Respect 

In the saddle bag 

Next to your ego and your cocky little brain 

Like a pissed off bull at a rodeo 

She only
Lets You Ride Her!

Until she’s done 

Fill her tanks with oil and gas  

Kick her starter 

And remember 

Always-Remember! 

She’s only taking 

U 

for a ride. 

You lucky

Son-of-a-Bitch!