His motorcycle stands outside,
a mass of gleaming chrome;
he revs his engine over as
he waits to take me home.
?Though machine is clean and immaculate
my guy is quite a shock -
his jeans are torn and tattered
and his hair's a greasy lock.
No way could you call him handsome,
and some say he looks mean -
others think he's the ugliest that they have ever seen.
Yet, beneath the leather jacket,
the chains, the studs and hair,
if only people looked, they'd find
a soft heart beating there;
the mender of a broken wing,
a grandma's doting boy,
the volunteer who gives his all,
the painter giving joy.
They only see the jacket,
the hair, the studs and chains;
they think they know the heart beneath
and imagine ill-gotten gains.
His motorcycle stands outside,
he's waiting there for me;
I'm proud to ride behind him,
I know the man he is, you see.