The One Percenters Poem by Robert Edgar Burns

The One Percenters



In the part of the country I live in,
You won't find this in the papers.
Because of the tourist industry,
The public won't hear of their capers.

The world headquarters of biker gangs.
We cops call them one percenters.
Because ninety nine percent of the time,
Bikers are lawful group members.

I've gone into prisons with biker clubs,
With roaring motorcycle engines.
To take an interest in lost souls there,
Who are forgotten but still need attention.

One percenters live in the back
Of some outlying civilizations.
Trying to live unnoticed from all,
They shun all public attention.

Once a member they are in for life.
Indoctrination will include murder.
They wear and fly their colors,
In numbers they can really hurdle.

They are organized criminals surely,
With state and national chapters.
The Mafia stays away from them,
Because in viciousness they are the masters.

A President elected because of his
Exploits within their games.
But capture one of these fearless guys,
They'd die before giving his name.

Their women mostly were victims
Who were kidnapped by them one day.
Months of abuse have rendered them
To afraid to get away.

As property women will drive in vans,
Loaded with weapons for the groups.
Bikers when stopped by officials of Law,
No weapons will be recouped.

They send their women as property,
To sell drugs out on the street.
And make them work as strippers,
Then party back at their retreat.

Fear is their number one weapon.
'Do what you gotta do' is their voice!
If you come across a one percenter,
Turning around is your best choice.

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