Wheels

 

I’m going to write a psycho-list,

A peloton that’s better missed

Those Lycra clad with ugly shapes

Untrained unwanted jackanapes.

 

At two abreast and six ranks deep,

It’s up the hills they weave and creep.

They think they are the public good,

But only serve to boil the blood.

 

Of course they have a right to be,

But so again has little me.

They pay for nothing, serve themselves,

Just gremlins dressed as painted elves.

 

I got behind one monkey troop,

An urban road, a city loop.

A queue of traffic massed behind,

But they’re not of the caring kind.

 

They pedalled onward, head hard down,

They pedalled right into the town,

They pedalled blocking street and lane,

I cursed and then I cursed again.

 

I took to walking, pavement style,

A pleasure for a little while,

But onward rode the sweating band,

On footpaths too they rule the land.

 

You can’t escape them near or far,

These enemies of bus and car,

Impervious to the honking horn,

They treat us with distain and scorn.

 

I’m not politically correct,

For cyclists I’ve no respect.

And though I rode for many years,

These modern fools engender tears.

 

They’re antisocial at their best,

I’ll not elaborate the rest.

These few inflict to public pain,

Look out for here they come again.

 

A Grand Depart that’s what we need,

Each rider on his metal steed,

A haven for each harlequin,

Where cycling is not a sin.

 

Where cars will patient wait behind,

Where they can be with like of mind,

Where pedalling is sheer romance,

So bugger off and go to France.