Its summer.
Office girls are flirting
With the riders at the Pelican crossing.
They do that..
Why?
I can stand on the pegs I can flick up the nose.
I can make this 250 go sideways.
Red means STOP sometimes
Amber means GO
To me.
I'm bound for Glory on The Old Kent Road
Weaving and jinking
Clipping the wing mirrors.
With Vicky on the radio
It's a digital radio and she's burning a hole in my shoulder
My controller
She gets me all the plum drops.
I can earn a thousand a week on greasy streets
I'm talking miles that is not money
I've got no worries.
St Christopher's looking down on me from way up there
Laughing and waving with all the other saints and calling out look out down there
It's Triple A.
Like a Bullet,
You can watch a fat man die on a slip road
While the coppers are pumping his chest
Roll a f*g
Take a rest.
Then its head down ad headed for Watford in the rain
on a matt black rat bike.
All the suburbs look the same.
The only part of me that is not numb is my eyes.
Is St Christopher still looking down on me from way up there?
Or wringing his Hands and tearing his hair out in despair?
Triple A. Like a Bullet
Home clear three times faster.
I will roll on up to the Thames
Chuck the whole lot in
Stuff a lit rag in the tank and head for home
Triple A. Like a Bullet
Home clear three times faster.