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.

The Man with the Hump

Bowed by the drooping handle-bars he leans
Upon his bike and gazes at the ground;
His back is humped and crooked and his face
Is strained and agonizing in its look.
Who made him sit upon a wheel like this?
Or are we fast approaching to the time
When man, to ride a wheel, must needs assume
The posture of the beasts which have four feet?

He scorches down the crowded avenue;
Slave to the wheel of labor, what to him
Are men and women who are in his path,
Or children in their innocence at play?
There is no shape more terrible than this
Spread-eagle chump who rides upon his nose,
Deforms his spine and crushes in his chest;
Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop.

What if the bars would break - where would he go?
Or, with his face against the tire in front,
Which we will grant is filled with puncturine;
What if said tire should "burst" and all that stuff
Squirt in his face? Would he not be a sight?
His mother would not recognize her son.
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Give back the upward looking and the light?