It glides along at perfect speed,
Encompassing a ride in haste,
Or a meander, to my taste,
Drawing gawks from dazzled peasants,
Humbled by its gloried presence.
You lit up ridestudiocafe,
On a dull and sunless day,
In your coat of gleaming latte,
You were truly quite a hot-te.
In looks it has a city feel,
Its frame of fine cro-moly steel,
Of carbon fiber it knows not,
Beneath contempt to roadie snots,
But as I watch some spandex twit,
Blow by in full faux world-champ kit,
I forget all my travails,
Communing with the leafy trails,
As it elicits compliments
From friendly speedsters far less dense.
Its step-through top tube is a peach,
It puts the saddle well in reach,
So I needn't strain my thighs,
Stretching my legs up to the skies,
Its woven basket perched just so,
To carry sundries to and fro
And oh! the many happy stories,
Of ice-cream trips to Rancatore's!
No, it can't whisk me to the line,
In a Cavendish-esque time,
Nor titillate a shrieking fan,
While it climbs up Zoncolan,
Samu' or Jens I'll never be,
A podium I'll never see,
And though we cannot win a race,
My Public is the perfect ace!
Posts
