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Black and chrome and dusty, with it's leather saddle low; Jugs protrudin' outward where the cooler breezes blow. 'Couple decades come and gone, she's weathered well the years; And now my hands are on her grips and climbing through her gears. Some old sickles really whine, others simply squawk; But there's a few, a precious few, whose pipes can really talk! A sound that's deep and solid tends to grab me through and through When I open up the slides on my old slash-two. She idles, oh, so slowly; kinda rockin' side to side; Tappets tik-tak tappin', pistons pumping me with pride. The gearbox clunks intently and the spokes begin to spin; Hear it barkin' through the baffles 'bove the whistlin' of the wind. The throttle sets a certain gait, while with me on the streets Cars have drivers bobbin' heads to some broadcasted beat. They spend their fortunes searching for that tuned-in perfect sound; The perfect pitch, the perfect mix; can such a thing be found? Then reaching down another gear, I share with them a clue As I open up the slides on my old slash-two.
Wes Stephenson

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