He's only as old as his helmet and no one can see his grey hair
Though the dark tinted perspex sun visor as he breathes in the open freeway air
There's a two hour queue out of Stansted and an age on the M25
A line of artics that stretches to Yorkshire but this guy's still glad to be alive
Half his world in his topcase the other half in his sack
As he overtakes the juggernauts of his past, this guy's never looking back
He lives his life on the white lines, he's the spirit of old "66"
Three hundred kilos of man and machine still getting their kicks

He's still dreaming of summers on the open road
The path that he's chosen is no more than he's owed
And his freedom comes in horsepower it seems
The apehanger bars seem to suit him so well
He's an Easy Rider, he's a Bat out of Hell
He's the Leader of the Pack, he's and Angel in the Raw
But no-one writes those biker songs no more

Basildon Glows on the distant horizon like he's coming down to L.A.
The rain's sheeting in from imagined mountains but while the traffic works he plays

He's only as old as his helmet and he only got it last week
And the exhaust sounds like a fucking rock band and the cops only see a silver streak
He's got Born to be Wold on the Walkman and the Devil tattoo doesn#t show
But the guy from the chip shop fown your street is a Heavy Metal God Of The Road

And the sun has just set behind the Rockies tonight
On the roads by the Med the water shines bright
There's chrome by the roadhouses and dark-eyed chicks at the bar
There's camp fires burning and there's bands on stage
And something good's smokin'
But he's never been his age
And the world is his oyster like it never was before
But no-one writes those biker songs no more