Second skin

Six months it took to grow my hair long,
a biker boy look to feel I belonged,  
I needed the clothes, reflections of me,  
something grubby and ripped at the knee.  
 
So I waited until my brother got fat,  
and took the tight leather from off of his back,  
his old biker boots I saved from the bin,  
the cobbler laughed when I took them in.  
 
Steel plated cleats complete with new zips,  
fixed the scuffed leather, all was hand stitched,  
a nervous how much, for the work he had done,  
son I couldn't charge you, I've had too much fun.  
 
A bottle of bleach poured over new jeans,  
the family bath had never been so clean,  
rinsed in cold water to stop them from rotting,  
so bleeding tight they stopped me from squatting.  
 
A jumper came next for under the leather,  
knitwear from Nan to keep out the weather,  
brown wool she bought, so what could I say,  
I would have to wear black, some other day.  
 
All on a journey of bikes beer and friends,  
forever an image of myself to extend,  
caught in the fibers a DNA of my youth,  
even the drug squad could use them as proof.  
 
The jumper I kept, its upstairs in the loft,  
sometimes I lift the lid from its box,  
the first thing I smell is just musty and stale,  
then I get cigarettes and a hint of brown ale.