Ode to Harley-Davidson


                                            By Bill Ellingsen



In 2003 I bought one of Europe’s best.

You see, sport-touring on two wheels was my quest.


The dealership was a hundred and fifty miles away.

But that fine machine would rarely see them, anyway.


I forked over my hard-earned pile of cash with glee.

Sleek and powerful was my 1200 GT.


Smooth and luxurious, the amenities abounded.

But so did the trouble; the mechanics were astounded.


Then came gasoline fumes, the source they couldn’t find.

Followed by staining, the permanent kind.


I called my friendly service manager. This had to stop!

He referred me to their U.S.A. headquarters, right to the top.


Their slick New Jersey rep offered to have it retrieved from my place.

Then came the hitch, the slap to my face.


Repair only the leak, and they’d have it towed.

But If wanting it fixed right, I'd take my chances on the road.


I saddled up and went for a ride, followed by Pirate Girl, 

fire extinguisher by her side.


From time to time I remember that event.

All the time that I wasted, the money I spent.


None of their bikes again will I own.

Their superior products aren’t welcome at my home.


So now what do I ride? To what motorcycle can I trust my hide?

I’ve found satisfaction in just two words:  Electra Glide.