Heck’s Angels

Have you heard the low thrum

Of a dozen mopeds

Cresting the rise of a hill?

The carry an air

Of environmental concern,

And always pay their bill.

The drink microbrews,

Read the Huffington post,

And ride to protest warming weather.

They want to be safe,

But they won’t kill a cow,

So instead they’re decked out in fruit leather.

They’ve occupied Wall Street

And conquered small towns.

They adopted Obamacare early.

They wear handmade bling

And fair trade hemp socks

And, only on Facebook, act surly.

And then with a puff

Of carbon-free smoke

They pedal away once again.

They’re Al Gore’s private army,

The Heck’s Angels gang,

Inclusive of GBT men.

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