GARY ROBERTSON: Home

BIKER SHORTS

I don’t get to town real often,

     But every time I do,

When I finish runnin’ errands

     Well, I like to have a brew.

There’s this little bar I go to

     That kinda caters to us Hands.

It don’t have no Line Dance competitions

     ‘r, Battles Of The Bands.

It’s just got this “stand-up” bar fer drinkin’

     Don’t have a single stool.

‘N you can’t spit upon the floor,

     But that’s their only rule.

They’ve got a few small tables

     Back there in the rear,

‘N they’re known fer fair priced whisky

     ‘N damn-near frozen beer.

Now if you wander to the restroom

     It’s plain enough to see

They haven’t had a health check there

     Since nineteen ‘n seventy three.

No, it ain’t what you’d call trendy

     There’s saw dust on the floor

‘N it’s the taxidermy on the walls

     That passes fer decor.

Now all this is so you’ll understand

     Why I was shocked to see

The last time that I went in there

     The only Cowboy there was me.

When I pulled into that gravel lot,

     There was Mountain Bikes galore.

There must have been fifty of-em

     Right outside the door.

Well Lordy, what a fool I was

     I parked ‘n went inside,

‘N when I saw that new clientele

     I near broke down ‘n cried.

But I went back to the corner

     Ordered up a beer.

I figgered I’d just have me one,

     Might as well, since I was here.

Folks, I had barely just tipped up my glass,

     I mean, taken my first taste.

When this little feller in skin-tight shorts

     Comes ‘n jumps up in my face.

He says, “If you’re a Cowboy,

      Mister where’s your horse?”

But I remained a gentleman,

     In consideration of the source.

I shook my head, ‘n bit my lip

     Went back to my brew

While “Biker Shorts” ‘n his goofy friends

     Shared a laugh ‘r two.

I just finished up, paid my tab,

     Was headed fer the door

When here comes Mister Biker Shorts

     A staggerin’ ‘cross the floor.

He says, “This town ain’t big enough

     Fer both of us, you see

So catch the next stage out-a town,

     Or you’ll be answerin’ to me.”

Folks, I just went out to my pick up

     It’s an IH, ‘68

It’s a one ton dually

     Part mud, part rust, ‘n part paint.

I took the lariat from the rifle-rack

     Shook out a nice big loop

‘N pitched this pretty Hoolihan

     ‘Round all them bikes there in a group.

Three wraps ‘n a hooie

     Around the trailer hitch

Then I slipped her into granny gear

     ‘N took aim at the ditch.

But you know I couldn’t do it

     To run that ditch, it just weren’t right,

So I pulled out on the Interstate,

     ‘N damn, them sparks made a pretty sight.

Now, there’s several things I learned that day,

     Bike parts make a quite distinctive trail,

The food ain’t really all that bad

     In the Ventura County Jail.

‘N one last thing, ‘n this here’s truth

     I swear this ain’t no rumor

Judges who ride mountain bikes,

     They ain’t got no sense of humor.

                                                                                                  G.D.Robertson