Motorcycle poems

These new works encompass the rewriting of some old classics(with respect) and my love of motorcycling. I'm working on some other old classics and would welcome your opinions

The Ballerina

The stage is set.

The overture begins.

The lights go down....

He's older now and balding with a little saggy belly

tucked up tight into his leathers. While 'the girl' is watching telly

he is polishing the spokes and putting grease upon the chain

out there underneath the carport, sheltered from the evening rain.

There is mischief on his mind and a glimmer in his eye

He swings his latest ride, which sets him free,

out to the street then rolls the roller door down on the sly

Pulls helmet on and gloves; then turns the key.

An average sort of bloke and p'raps the type of man you'd like

He's like a ballerina when he's weaving, spinning, turning

He's like a ballerina when he's out there on his bike

His woman sits politely with a grin there as the rumble

shakes the furniture a little. Prays to God, 'don't let him tumble'.

He is sitting for a minute as his ritual dictates

taking time to squeeze the clutch then check the cables and the brakes.

With dishes done, he's free to wander off a while and dream

He drops the clutch engages gear and glides.

The stillness of the evening cut by V - twin and hi beam.

The roar that causes shudders as he rides.

A normal sort of bloke, though not the type your mum might like.

He's like a ballerina when he's spinning on his bike

Diving in and out of bends, while hoping that the night won't end

Spinning deftly round the corners on his bike.

The roads fly out before him and you'd never understand it,

unless you had the fever and the smell of petrol fanned it.

Unless you yourself have sat there in a saddle much the same

and if, of course, you haven't well that's just a bloody shame.

He's politely taking corners at ungentlemanly pace'

while the voice inside his helmet is his own'

he thinks about the woman sitting by the fire place

and her love ever present guides him home.

There's two wheels underneath him when he's old he'll ride a trike.

And he's like a ballerina on his own there on his bike.

His wheels are spinning freely in the night....

And the lights fade again...

THE MAN FROM SNOWYRIVER

Apologies to A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

There was movement down the local, for the word had passed around