His motorcycle stands outside, a mass of gleaming chrome: He revs his engine over as he waits to take me home. Though machine is clean and immaculate my guy is quite a shock - his jeans are torn and tattered and his hair’s a greasy lock. No way could you call him handsome and some say he looks mean - Others think he’s the ugliest that they have ever seen. Yet, beneath the leather jacket, the chains, the studs and hair, if only people looked, thye’d find a soft heart beating there; The mender of a broken wing, a grandma’s doting boy, the volunteer who gives his all, the painter giving joy. They only see the jacket, the hair, the studs and chains; They think they know the heart beneath and imagine ill-gotten gains. His motorcycle stands outside, he’s waiting there for me; I’m proud to ride behind him, I know the man he is, you see
