tired and sore, but happy

we are the ***** 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