By Ken Hanson
If it was easy everyone would do it,
That’s what I’ve heard people say,
Several days hard riding in 100 degree weather,
Over 800 miles each way.
We do it right in the middle of summer,
When the sun looks for skin to be burned,
Those who do it earn the respect of their peers,
It’s a recognition that’s well earned.
Sturgis they call it, the town and the event,
A week long gathering half a million strong,
The biggest biker rally in the world,
A party lasting all week long.
A sleepy little farm town the rest of the year,
Sturgis wakes up when the bikes come to town,
On the north end of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
It’s a name that’s known the world around.
Every August for 71 years,
Bikers the world over point their machines this way,
Rides through the mountains, concerts and races,
Something to do every minute of every day.
Old friends get together and talk about the ride,
New friends every year camped right next to you,
A week of good times and good memories,
A pilgrimage every biker at least once should do.
People here come from all walks of life,
Normal ones and outlaws as well,
Most are good people like you and me,
Some just aren’t right, those you can tell.
Some bring their families, some bring their dogs,
Most bring a girlfriend or wife,
A few might come looking for trouble,
They bring tattoos and a knife.
Now tattoos don’t always mean trouble,
Good people have them too,
But as if it were meant to announce their intentions,
The outlaws always do.
They bring their own rules and disregard the law,
They only care about one of their own,
They think they’re better than everyone else,
Their contempt for society is well known.
The one percenters they like to be called,
The name came from a journalist long ago,
He said only one percent of bikers are outlaws,
They wear in on a patch so everyone will know.
Most of the time they don’t cause much trouble,
The large Police presence keeps them in line,
Still, you’ll do well to keep out of their way,
Leave them alone and you’ll be just fine.
There are dozens of outlaw biker gangs,
You can tell by the colors they wear,
And the leather and chains and the greasy smell,
And the tattoos and of course the long hair.
You might think the scary ones are all outlaws,
Look closer, you won’t believe what you’ve seen,
A small gold cross, a tattoo of Jesus,
A worn patch that says John 3:16.
Not all rough looking bikers are outlaws,
Many gave their soul to Jesus long ago,
They knew their lifestyle was a path of destruction,
They found the path to salvation was the way to go.
They changed their life to save their life,
Salvation is offered to everyone no matter how you look,
The patience of Jesus has no limits,
He’ll hold the door open no matter how long it took.
That scary looking biker is in a gang too,
God’s gang, he spreads the word till the truth is known,
He rides for The Son as well,
Though his beast is steel and chrome.
Hardcore Christians they’ve come to be called,
They outnumber the outlaws ten to one,
Their ministry is everywhere on the streets of Sturgis,
The world is a better place when their day is done.
It took a while for me to realize all of this,
It’s easy to judge others on the appearance of them,
But that’s not what we’re supposed to do,
That’s Gods job, leave it to him.
When you meet someone, forget about how they look,
Tell them Jesus offers a fresh start,
“Judge Not Least Ye Be Judged”
Only God knows what’s in their heart.
