Tell me — how many more stars will perish while we perch on our wooden pegs,
Lapping up the last light left lingering from the star about to die.
Our chrome-covered mufflers whisper songs of solitude — our v-twin engines snoring — silence now rule.
On a blackish road to nowhere shuffling snakes are on parade — beyond the vacant Valley of Death a pale lady awaits
To draw all weary riders towards her quiet realm, visps of smoke inside her crystal ball beaconing.
The vroom of engines starting sends shivers down spineless backs,
Yogi’s hat falls off as the Angels make their last escape,
Faster faster the wheels turn faster
As the wild wind carry them further and further away
From the safe shores of sanity, into the lingering dark night of hell.
As the morning fog clears the lady is gone, they ride towards the hailing star — Born to be Wild — once again.