(Author Unknown)

The old ones stand out now, their numbers dwindling down. They're a
sad loss to the American scene, these individualists with the worn
down clothes  and faces.

 You can still see them sometimes, the real ones. Some in packs, not
as large as a while ago. Sometimes alone. The alone one is the best.

One who's been there a long time, staying in the life he loves, never
giving into a system that sucks you up like a vortex if you slip just
one foot into it. He's got his connections -
a few like him, that care for and protect each other.

 Hanging onto the only unique lifestyle left. Like old dinosaurs,
their faces are leathered and rough by forty, but their eyes still
sharp and knowing.

 Some are gray in the beards and braids, some are limp in the step and
some pain in the kidneys.

 Still they know that no other life is life, but merely a dreary
journey into everyone else's monotony.
He looks at the new ones, then turns away, knowing they will never
know of life on the road and of the women who can take it.

 Wild, loving, women who'll hang in with them, because they love it too.
A woman with a wild heart and a loyal soul, that's what's needed here.
The new ones are shiny and young and a bit too clean. They're born
into a system that has an iron grip now.
The new one's will never know and couldn't take "the life."

 I think it's a mystique, even to the old ones, why this life is
theirs, but it is, and it's the only one. When the last biker falls,
like the dinosaurs, the sun will go down on a breed of heart-of-gold,
tough as nails, free spirited men, who even at their worst, love
what's theirs and protect it.
In a world wide system that is making all people as alike as
manufactured dolls, the earth will be a duller place....

When the last biker falls