Bikers for Jesus, leather-clad and bold,
But their wildest ride's to church, or so I'm told.
They pray for your Harley, bless your tattooed arm,
But the only thing they fear is a Wi-Fi alarm.
Their "chopper" is a blender, their "gang" a prayer chain,
Ghostface shows up—they're offering grace, not pain.
Clampers in red shirts, historians with beer,
Their wildest adventure? Forgetting their gear.
They'll toast to a plaque, then pass out on the lawn,
First to scream in a slasher flick, gone before dawn.
If you need a brawl, they RSVP "maybe,"
More likely to nap than to ever act shady.
Hells Angels, once legends, now more DMV,
Arguing over pizza, not territory.
Clubhouse meetings, paperwork, outlaw days past,
If Scream called them up, they'd want peace talks fast.
"Can we just talk this out?"—their new battle cry,
The only thing they're chasing is the last piece of pie.
Now, in Flynn Rider's tune, I'll serenade your kid:
I had a dream your mom wouldn't kill me for truth,
So here it is, uncensored and uncouth—
Bikers for Jesus? Softies in leather,
Clampers? Can't handle booze or weather,
Hells Angels? DMV angels in line,
If you want real tough, kid, you won't find it this time.
Oh Bradley, oh Bradley, don't try to deceive,
I see through your vest, I know when you leave.
No secrets, no bluffs, I'm watching your game,
You're tough in the mirror, but I know your real name!
So next time you see these biker crews ride,
Remember—sometimes the loudest roar's just pride.
And if you're undercover, don't just watch—step in,
Because real courage is showing up, not just blending in.