That thing will never run
It's in too many pieces
You'll never haven an ounce of fun
The thing is a pile of feces
But you plowed through the rust
The caked grease
And the dust
Until it shined like a new silver piece
Finally one night at twilight
I heard a commotion
And going closer a strange sight
You perched on the frame in the fading sun
A last kick you threw at it
And for a second
I thought you'd had it
But the machine coughed to life with a bang
Cha-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa!
I hung out and helped
By handing you tools
As you tweaked and you torqued
Using your manual and it's rules
After two more days work
The pieces all together
You strapped on your crash hat
While I grabbed a chair and sat
You kicked it to life
And disappeared for a short while
Turning around at the dead end
I soon saw your headlight, then your smile
I sit back amused
As on by you cruise
On that bike
That I said never would run
Cha-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa!
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