His reflexes keen, he mounts his machine

like a knight going forth to do battle

With a horn for a lance, his steed geared to advance

he sets himself square in the saddle

Then it's into the fray and come what may

be it Peykans, semis or wagons,

No bright flashing headlights or road signs or red lights

dare challenge this slayer of dragons.

With characteristic aplomb, he targets his bomb,

showing utter disdain for his peers.

Then he gestures and shouts to remove any doubts

that, for him, life itself holds no fears.

But should someone harass him or, God forbid pass him

and throw him some one-arm salutes,

our once galant charmer in bright shiny armor

reverts to his cro-magnon roots.

He's King Kong, only larger, a fullback, a charger,

He's the Steelers front four with the blitz on,

He's the bull that you see, selling Schlitz on TV

(what he doesn't knock over he shits on).

Or picture our man, as best you can,

at the wheel of his macho machine,

as a hyper Bruce Lee or a ticked-off Ali

and you'll know more or less what I mean.

This emotional load on our king of the road

results in acute tunnel vision,

God help the street vendor, or the gentle goat tender

who makes an untimely decision.

But his destiny's clear, and the day's drawing near,

not the Shah nor Allah can change it,

so for God and for nation (and while I'm on vacation),

I wish they would jointly arrange it.