An Indonesian on his bike so fast, A cigarette in his right hand clasped, Cool knock-off Ray-Bans, his eyes adorned, The wind in his hair, his spirit reborn.

He rides through the streets, so crowded and loud, With a confident swagger, he stands out from the crowd, The scent of cloves, he leaves in his wake, As he rides around, with each turn he takes.

The aroma of his cigarette, strong and sweet, Of clove and tobacco, a scent hard to beat, It lingers in the air, as he speeds along, A reminder of home, a place where he belongs.

As he rides towards the beach, the sun on his back, The wind in his face, he's on the right track, He parks his bike, the scent still in the air, A reminder of his culture, that's always there.

He sits there, in cool Ray-Bans, on his motorcycle, Watching the sun set, with colors so magical, He only lifts his shades, just a little bit, To keep looking cool, and not make a big hit.

The scent of cloves, it surrounds him still, A connection to home, and the life he wills. But as the sun dips below the horizon, The smell of Indomie, from the hills starts risin',

He quickly returns home, for dinner to partake, The aroma so inviting, he can hardly wait. He rides back, his bike a blur, The scent of cloves, he can't ignore, It's in his clothes, his hair, and his soul, A part of him, that makes him whole.

As he reaches home, the table is set, With Indomie, his favorite, he can't forget, He sits down, his appetite renewed, With the taste of home, his spirit imbued.

For he is a man of Indonesia, proud and true, With his motorcycle, his cigarette, and his Ray-Bans too, He rides on, a fearless soul, brave and strong, With a love for his culture, that will last his whole life long.