tired and sore, but happy
we are the dirty teens of the underground
grungy and grimy, our hair out of place
dirt on our hands and red on our cheeks
the wind biting against our skin as we ride
put the pedal to the metal and we climb
up, up high as we can go without dying
it's a wonderful thing, not caring
we don't care how people in the cars near by
see us as we ride in the rain
our clothes sticking to our skin
and the mud across our backs
biking through puddles
and talking about nothing
yelling to the sun
about how awesome we are
and how the hills mean nothing
to our muscled thighs
mud flies off our shoes
from the rocks we climbed
we move onward to our next location
your house or mine?
we sit ourselves upon a couch
and watch the hours glide by
and we get back on our bikes again
we're itching for a ride