My true love is a bikie bolde;
He feareth not the winter's colde.
His bike doth shine like burnished golde,
Sing sprockety, clackety, clunk.

His tires have the toughest treads,
His frames exotic metals weds,
He sports those cool Italian threads.
Sing sprockety, clackety, clunk.

The temperature is ten below,
The north wind gustily doth blow.
My true love cries, "Away we go!"
Sing sprockety, clackety, clunk.

He roams the Bershires and the Valley;
Mountain bikes around him rally.
Look there's Jon and Bob and Sally!
Sing sprockety, clackety, clunk.

A noble knight can do no less
Than rescue cyclists in distress;
He wields his wrench with great finesse.
Sing sprockety, clackety, clunk.

At last doth set the winter sun.
Our hero's home, his day is done.
He sighs, "Now didn't we have fun?"
Sing sprockety, clackety, clunk.