One thought on “The Stroker

    Wes Stephenson

    The shadows from the moonlight
    Are cast upon the ground;
    He slips out from his cabin
    And walks without a sound.

    He pulls aside the creaking door
    That leads into the shack,
    And in the dark his Harley waits,
    Silent, cold, and black.

    He pushes it to the winding road
    That descends the darkened peak;
    He coasts on down without a sound,
    Graceful, cool, and sleek.

    At the bottom of the mountain,
    Just outside of town,
    He kicks the sickle into gear
    And lays the rubber down.

    He steams a bead down State Street,
    He flies a left on Main;
    It’s midnight in October,
    The Stroker rides again!

    Ninety cubes of breathing steel
    Roar between his legs;
    The speedo needle takes a right
    And rests upon the peg.

    Another left on Third Street,
    He screams right by the bar
    Where drunkards watch him flying
    And wonder where they are.

    The Sheriff sits inside his Dodge,
    The Harley streaks on by;
    The Sheriff puts the pedal down,
    The Dodge begins to fly.

    The Sheriff’s tried a thousand times
    To bring the Stroker in;
    No matter what he tries to do
    He never seems to win.

    The Stroker heads for mountains,
    Like every time before;
    The Harley’s really thumpin’,
    But capable of more.

    They dove into those mountain roads
    Like gulls into the seas;
    The Sheriff lost it on a curve
    And plowed a field of trees.

    By chance it was the very curve
    Where, just ten years ago,
    A stranger died when he tried
    To lay his Harley low.

    The Dodge just covered the hillside;
    The Sheriff was never found.
    And now, at night, ’bout twelve o’clock
    You hear a different sound.

    The Midnight Stroker blasts through town,
    And, strange as strange can get,
    On his tail’s that Sheriff’s Dodge,
    “I’ll get that Stroker yet!”

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