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The Mole by Saratoga John
Throw my leg over the choped iron and throttle-up Time to Forget the fuckin job and ass-kissin boss Two long draws on the flask is a harley mans cheap sup Time to gather-up speed and hammer-it down hoss
Another weekend of party-hard at the Attica Roadhouse Enter at your own risk, sign on door say’s no squids allowed The barmaid cries out for freedom and off comes her blouse Drug laws, helmet laws, and gun laws, not in this crowd
Booze gives courage to many a fool, he enters my space I look him in the eye and say “time to shit or get off the pot” He farts and melts away and I return to the ladies in lace Band plays sweet Southern Rock, damn this girl of mine is hot
Reality returns on Monday, The smell of shit is in the air I suffer from an identity crisis once inside this concrete wall A visual keeper of my brothers locked in a cell I do not share Except for a wink I remain quiet for now and pretend to walk tall
jwells1@nycap.rr.com
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