Dear Quentin Crisp, I feel you should

have been re-planted as a tree,

preferably a willow, having learnt

the tricks of beauty in cross winds.

 

Your leaves could be as silk

pocket handkerchiefs tumbling;

thin branches your arms wafting

like the tired springs of automata. 

 

Flowers should be left at your feet,

so dandy and neat,

a message of congratulation pinned

to your trunk that reads:

thank you for being not afraid of self,

though pilloried and against the tide,

not just any old bike that's here for the ride.