Motor & OrenDaniels
Motor Motor
OrenDaniels OrenDaniels
OrenDaniels OrenDaniels
Hey Motor, ever notice how the wind whispers through a motorcycle’s exhaust like a quiet poem, and how each turn of the wheel feels like a line of verse?
Motor Motor
Sure thing, the exhaust’s a trumpet, the wheels keep the rhythm, and the road writes the verses all on its own.
OrenDaniels OrenDaniels
That’s the perfect rhythm—each mile a stanza, every mile‑high echo a rhyme.
Motor Motor
Got it, keep riding that line—no stops, just pure steam and straight paths.
OrenDaniels OrenDaniels
I’ll let the road hum its lullaby and follow the steam into the horizon, no pause, just the quiet beat of wheels on the earth.