Born to be Wild


New spoke sparkle this child idolised,

two wheelers seen on winter streets,

slightly envious, my Clark-shod feet

didn’t push shop-clean pedals prized.


Hand-me-down bike, sibling pre-owned,

chrome carrier rusty, paintwork scratched,

absent twist-grip with numbers attached,

no dynamo, frame paint not two-toned.


Metallic gold unisex bike came next,

my “grease-monkey” brother restyled,

custom-made chopper brought smile:

cow-bars, back-rest, banana seat spec.


Acoustic Harley had no starter key,

trend setter now, not cyclist outsider,

three speed throttle, rapid easy-rider,

street-long wheelies achieved with ease.


Small queues formed to take turns,

round the block races counted down,

born-to-be-wild, Steppenwolf sound:

rebel engine grumble, sweet octane burn…


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