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The shadows from the moonlight Are cast upon the ground; He slips out from his cabin And walks without a sound. He pulls aside the creaking door That leads into the shack, And in the dark his Harley waits, Silent, cold, and black. He pushes it to the winding road That descends the darkened peak; He coasts on down without a sound, Graceful, cool, and sleek. At the bottom of the mountain, Just outside of town, He kicks the sickle into gear And lays the rubber down. He steams a bead down State Street, He flies a left on Main; It's midnight in October, The Stroker rides again! Ninety cubes of breathing steel Roar between his legs; The speedo needle takes a right And rests upon the peg. Another left on Third Street, He screams right by the bar Where drunkards watch him flying And wonder where they are. The Sheriff sits inside his Dodge, The Harley streaks on by; The Sheriff puts the pedal down, The Dodge begins to fly. The Sheriff's tried a thousand times To bring the Stroker in; No matter what he tries to do He never seems to win. The Stroker heads for mountains, Like every time before; The Harley's really thumpin', But capable of more. They dove into those mountain roads Like gulls into the seas; The Sheriff lost it on a curve And plowed a field of trees. By chance it was the very curve Where, just ten years ago, A stranger died when he tried To lay his Harley low. The Dodge just covered the hillside; The Sheriff was never found. And now, at night, 'bout twelve o'clock You hear a different sound. The Midnight Stroker blasts through town, And, strange as strange can get, On his tail's that Sheriff's Dodge, ""I'll get that Stroker yet!""
Wes Stephenson

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