Confessions of a Liberal Puritan

The first four stanzas of "HarleyMan" can be found here.

And stanza 5 is here:

Well, we reached our destination just as the sun went down:
A campground where "revival" was the rage.
To a thunderous ovation, signifying great reknown,
A slight blonde man in leather took the stage.

Though his accent sounded "street" (or the equivalent British term),
The blonde man's sermon reeked of education.
With many quotations sweet and an oratory firm,
He came to his triumphant peroration.

HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, in leather cool and black.
HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, yet poetry you lack!


Now, on to stanzas 6 and 7:

As the "Amens" tapered off, and the preacher left the mike,
A choir of blue-hued 'angels' started in.
Then I heard a little cough, and found my Lancelot-of-the-bike
Was motioning me to step outside the din.

Now the meeting tent was rocking to a hymn that sounded 'punk'
So I wasn't sad to take a little break.
And in search of something shocking, around the back we slunk
While HarleyMan asked me, "Is he a fake?"

HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, in leather cool and black.
HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, when do you hit the sack?

In answer to his quest for my professional critique
Of the bleached-blonde biker preacher we'd just heard,
I said, "He speaks with zest, and his theology's . . . unique:
A nice mix of the profound and the absurd."

"That's not a lot of help," HarleyMan replied, unfazed,
"But perhaps we'll find out more, now we're backstage."
Just then, I gave a yelp, as at a mirror we gazed
Where the preacher's background showed, but no visage.

HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, in leather cool and black.
HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, my jaw is going slack.

[more to come, soon]