Day of Hearts

Though snow may still fly,
drifting through like summer's thistledown,
spring's first stirrings begin.

The bike was never truely stored,
the Lady, she waits for the chance days of ridin',
when the new sun warms the land.

I look upon my calendar,
ol' Phil's seen his shadow, but I watch the robins fly,
and the amber half moon rise.

The Lady knew heartbreak,
before she came to me as have I before we met,
and together we see heartbreak again.

The ties of living life are binding,
one's oath must be foreborne with little alternative,
little freedoms given, some taken.

When her chains and tires sing,
some of the worry and iron bound weight slips,
a small slice of freedom returns.

I see the day of hearts approaches,
and remember the heartbreak wrought by the day,
and so does the Lady.

It is a fine gift to be given,
to be told to quit bitchin' about the cold bed,
the lack of company.

She said she's unwilling,
the bed's too hard, the room's too cold, she's too tired,
the excuses of an eight year mate.

You could figure that in eight years,
she'd bend her knee now and then if the caring was truely there,
and join me in my bed rather than staying in hers.

The day of hearts fast approaches,
once more mine own shows one more crack,
the Lady is the only one that mends.

So I've got a new job,
in a place I've long foreswore, but for the friends,
it'll pay the bills, the only reason I work.

She'll stay in her bed since mine is unwelcoming,
and I'll stay in mine since she won't ever stop in and warm it of nights,
and I'll wear my leathers and become one with the Lady.

I'll get my records straight and bills paid off,
the home made into a home again, and a place I feel welcome in again,
and I'll set her stuff outside on skids under tarp.

There'll be no place, no home for her here,
a man's patience only goes just so far, to be told for eight years what I've been told,
to do what has been done for her and only her.

Instead I'll build a ramp right though the front door,
her bedroom will be the new living room and the living room my garage,
and the Lady can have her own room and the woman the tarp.

Such a fine batch of gifts to give,
on the fast approaching day of hearts and heartbreak,
this biker's done had his fill.

Eight long years I ran a farm,
worked at the barn she worked at,
worked as a blacksmith,
worked as a lead ground man under a faulty crane,
worked sewing civil war hats,
built sheds, a cabin, broke wood, cooked, cleaned, kept house.

Eight long years I listened to excuses,
from the woman I would make a wife,
and then she says she won't sleep in the same bed,
and each excuse I can refute and it no longer matters.

Aye, 'tis a fine batch of gifts,
of broken words, broken promises, broken dates,
tomorrow never comes on the day of hearts.

For the first time in eight years,
a single man I will be, free of oath, free of promises,
and the Lady will have a date.