Biker's Balls

For all those literary bikers,
airbrush artists, Rimbaud trikers,
who hop their hogs cross rolling hills
and drop them to save daffodils,
who have such scars across the belly,
on which they rest Wordsworth and Shelly,
and O that nose, that broken nose,
to suck in sent of yellow rose, it blows,

because some match the biker's yen
to have their art tattooed on them.
Jackson Pollock splashed his paint,
and Pablo painted cubes,
but once no bitch except their own
had spiders on her boobs.

Still, those fucking Harvard masters,
those gay prancing pre-meds,
those prissy Princeton pussies,
and M.I.T. shitheads,
could not but hold a pubic hair
of one dear biker's balls:
Their fathers cannot buy into
the highway's hallowed halls.


(1987, updated 2013)