Bat Out Of Basildon 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