on the towpath trail at Harpers Ferry
under the trees and through the wood
we pick-up-sticked them hippo bikes
said “fuck you car … i own this road”
we was looking for a safehouse
come Farmer John stroke his three-fifty-seven
got a short-shorts piece o tail
on that greasy hog’s ass
come at us under the powerlines
them beady eyes under them mirror sunglass
he got oil down the clutch
he got chaw down the chin
“What you boys doing on my farm?”
“You best get to spin”
see’d a opposite car with a seven antenna
thirty minues east of the ‘ginia border
down through the swamp with its oily water
we dove left into that rabid dog meadow
runnin’ and gunnin’ from the county law
“Joe, give me an azimuth past the county line”
we mountain-goated them heifers all yip and yaw
riding them small roads, i was rehearsing my lines
“fuck off deputy … go spoon with your sergeant, go jack your jaw”
scrotocycles.rip 