Potato Potato

My Harley doesn't potato anymore
Instead of saying
"Poe-tay-toh Poe-tay-toh"
It seems to be saying
"Poe-tah-toh Poe-tah-toh"

I know it sounds strange for me to say
But it sounds foreign to my ears
An unknown in my garage and between my legs
A creeping addition to my existing fears

Did Christine sound different than other 1958 Plymouth Furys?
Was the demon that lived inside her
Prone to revealing his existence
Through silly little things like an exhaust note?

I've found myself cruising other kinds of bikes
The domestic Indians and Polaris
Even some imports from Japan and Europe
And I think my motorcycle suspects

When it thinks I'm going shopping
It often refuses to start
For absolutely no reason
I could run the battery down trying without so much as a fart

Last week when I was lubing the chain
Set firmly upon my motorcycle jack
For no reason I could see
It tipped over onto my back

And as I lay there with a footpeg drilling into me
I shifted a little so that it wasn't so firmly upon my kidney
I heard a whisper
Right in my ear
It distinctly said

"Keep me around
Or you'll not live out the year"

So I've cleaned up my act
And decided that the thing must have always sounded like it does
I burned all my bike brochures
Around new bike dealers I take wide detours

My Harley starts on the first try nowadays
It seems satisfied with my attitude
So for now it seems that I am safe
At least until the new bikes come out next year