A half dozen riders, no gods, no masters
Their two wheeled wives all riding in group
Called dregs, bums, losers, boozers
Together no bastards could stomp out these brutes
Not slaves, or Mongols, nor fallen Angels
Six riders in black
Drifting through shit-hole town to town
Finding respite in fields to broken down shacks

To live, to ride, to fight day by day
These brothers knew no other way
Not one day of peace when seen derelict,
Fists and chains to the jaw they'd respect
Knifed with bottles, shattered bones, tokens of extreme
Tearing down the bar with their bike; beam by beam
They searched for a killer through desert plains, a mountain pass
Knowing their fates lie in pools of blood and gas

Thor and his so called master race,
Their brother's killers were now giving chase
Howling like beasts from two miles back
Outnumbered, they stop for the final attack
Forming a phalanx of overturned bikes
An engulfing circle of flares, flames and lights
The six black riders, all for one, one for all
If this day be their last then together they'd fall

Stabbing and slashing, knives, chains and bats,
Pistol whipped in the face, a blood oozing gash
Knocked from the saddle with a rock to the skull
Scalped with a switch, tearing it whole

A blade through the jaw, bullet riddled leather, a growing field of dead
Bodies mangled, hacked in two, a fat tire peeling out on a head
Biting and clawing, gouging out eyes, the Vargrs and the six would meet their demise
Down the hill roared Thor with a lit stick in his fist
Jumping over their bikes to explode in their midst

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