Butch and Ern

Before there were diapers and dishes and bills,
There were two young men racing western hills.
Butch and Ern with a small plane share,
Cutting their names in the Montana air.


Sunday rides with Irene and Carol,
Chrome shining bright like a silver carol.
Highway hymns in the setting sun,
Four hearts beating loud as one.


Butch and Ern in the Montana sky,
Riding Harleys where the wild geese fly.
Two good men with the wind as a friend,
Swore this wasn’t just a phase, it’s a way to transcend.
From hangar doors to gravel roads,
They wrote their lives in freedom codes.


Years rolled on and the kids rolled in,
But that bond held tight beneath his skin.
Whenever Dad spoke of those Air Force days,
His eyes lit up in freedom’s blaze.


Some friendships fade like a worn-out song,
But some ride on a lifetime long.
Every time I see a Harley burn,
I hear the laughter of Butch and Ern.


Butch and Ern, two names in the dust,
Built on brotherhood, steel, and trust.
Those stories raised me without a doubt—
That’s what real friends are all about.

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