Bat Out Of Basildon

He's only as old as his helmet and no one can see his grey hair

Through 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 an 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 Wild on the Walkman and the Devil tattoo doesn't show

But the guy from the chip shop down 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 the 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