As I sit here in traffic, 
In the hot summer sun,
The traffic’s all jammed,
I'm not having much fun.

The cars are backed up,
For several long miles,
And I'm itchin and burnin, 
With a bad case of piles.

Then back a few cars,
What is this noise I am hearing?
A Yamaha motorcycle
Shifting up through the gearing!

He’s not waitin like I am,
Nor like the guys to my side.
He's driving between cars,
He’s compelled to just ride!

Now, I've had it, I tell you,
I can’t take any more,
So as he passes aside me,
I open my door.

That sound now produced,
Is sweet vengeance indeed,
As the rider dismounts, 
At lighting fast speed.

His round helmet removes 
My drivers' side glass,
As he does a half gainer,
He falls right on his 

Now he's still passin cars,
But to a dire lament,
He’s lookin at mufflers,
As he rides the cement.

At eighty feet out,
His leather chaps are worn thin.
He counts cracks in the street,
With his handsome cleft chin.

So there up the road, 
Ten car lengths, or more,
Sits the impatient biker,
And he's wearing my door! 

But, there while he thinks
The worst is all over,
He hears an odd whine,
And looks over his shoulder.

He frowns all to himself, 
"Today’s not my day!"
Seeing his rider-less cycle,
Headed fast back his way!

It strikes him square on,
With a sickening smack.
He goes down face first,
With his bike up his back.

Well it seems cars are rolling,
Traffic’s starting to go.
As I move up to the biker,
I pass him real slow.

I lean out of my car,
And to punish him more,
I smile down and whisper,
"You can just keep my door."

So when traffic backs up,
And you don’t want to wait,
Just remember this rhyme,
And that poor bikers’ fate.

This poem may be cute,
But, with a lesson to learn.
When you’re ridin in traffic,
You best wait your turn.
 

By Pat Thomson

Yesterday morning my Yamaha took me out to play,
It was a ten minute ride and now it's today.

We cruised the back roads through the twisty turns,
Stopping along the river bank with no concerns.
We met up with new friends plowing through the breeze,
Ate lunch at a tiny cafe, then rested under some trees.

The pastures so green from this brightest high sun,
River water sparkled by, chipmunks dashed on in fun.

Over the bridge we crossed the Illinois state line,
Touring wide lush vineyards, taste testing their wine.
We found beautiful young women attracted by chrome,
Pleading for rescue, they all forgot the way home.

A colorful picture postcard memory we always enjoy making,
As a wonderful life opens up, it's all for the taking.

A flyer on a telephone pole calls us forty miles West,
To late sunset fires, live music, and carnival jest.
State Fair is spinning its lights high in the air,
The people are outstanding, many stories to share.

Go cross the lock and dam ferry at Clarksville Town,
Yet another party to visit, and a loft to bunk down.

Morning welcomes my Yamaha, to glide almost with wings,
Wide open daybreak, sunrise, happy heart how it sings.
Unwinding a world underfoot, unburdened, freedom lifts,
A smiling pilot am I, casual observer of scenic gifts.

Finer than my favorite wine, simple, cool, and neat,
Quiet calm prairie paths, oceans of standing wheat.
Ride again to find more roads, you'll help me know my home,
Thanks to the Yamaha Virago, the awesome way to roam.
 

By Ken Yamaha