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On a highway east of Vegas, one Friday afternoon, A dozen Honda Goldwings were whimpering up a tune. Their riders all were comfy; all members of the club Who bring along the kitchen sink and trailer out the tub. The computers set the airshocks; the speedo set on cruise; They play cassettes or hi-fi sets, whichever one they choose. Then, suddenly, VIBRATION! The ""Wings"" begin to shake! The trees all seemed to quiver and the ground began to quake! They saw it in their mirrors, a ruby-colored blur; They thought it was a comet, but didn't know for sure. Then a glimpse of recognition, as it pulled along the flank, And no one even had to read the logo on the tank. They knew that Harley ""presence""; they hoped the thing was fed! They thought to see a shaken man astride the rumblin' red. But his footboards didn't shudder; his windshield didn't dance; His Harley smooth as velvet, he gave them each a glance, And left them with the feeling they had just beheld the king, Though its seats are not reclining and its dashboard doesn't ring. Yes, the Hondas each were fancy, but they hadn't reached their goal; For the Goldwing has the gadgets but the Harley has the soul!
Wes Stephenson

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