Mistake

Don’t be mistaken.

When on your Ducati,
When I wrap my arms a-
Round your waist so tightly,
It is not affection:
Don’t be mistaken.
I’m not feeling especially
      friendly,
I’m not getting cozy -
No, not at all.

When you gun your engines,
When you speed up round a
      wicked curve,
When my arms tighten round
      your gut,
Yes, you may be right to observe
That I’m feeling a little
Scared, a mite terrified.

But I cling on to you so tightly
Not out of sheer anxiety;
Not for the security you
      think you provide,
Not because I feel secure -
No, not at all –

Don’t be mistaken.

Yes, I’m clinging,
But it’s not what you think.
And I won’t let go -
Ever.

Don’t be mistaken;
Don’t misunderstand -
This is all part of my
Deliberate plan.

I’m hanging on so tight
Because I’m not going
Without a fight.

If and when your Ducati veers,
If and when your Ducati swerves
Around that wicked curve,
And I, pillion rider in the rear,
Get flung twenty feet
Across the damn tarmac
(while having a This
      Was Your Life! flashback),
Rest assured –
And I promise you this:
I won’t let go -
No, not ever.

If I’m getting thrown,
I won’t be going
      on my own.

Make no mistake about it:
If I’m ever going to meet
The Great Mechanic in the sky -
Guess what? –
You’d be coming with me
      for the ride.