One fine and wintry day at noon, and I to horrors all immune
Sat upon your cycle that rolled, that rolled on down the barren street.
I filled the frame behind your seat, and lifted up my precious feet
To set the bicycle to roll, to roll on down the barren street.
And while it strolled the street at noon, alike the lighter air-balloon
It strolled the streets all way to June.
All way to June I sat in fear, on moments each you chose to steer
The bicycle in funny ways, in funny ways that killed good sport.
I held my heart up in my throat, and shut my eyes to blink the road
Out of my mind before it killed — it killed good men and killed good sport.
All way to June I sat in fear, and while my death, it drew so near —
You did always so calm appear.
So calm appear when tilting much, you dared refuse the common touch
Of tact in balancing this act, this act that threw me off the chair.
Too brave an act and much I dare, when I do sit without a prayer
When carried on your bicycle, cycling while I am on the chair.
The fact that’s here is such and such, that in your manner tilting much
Your cycling skills you do misjudge.
You do misjudge your cycling skills, and yet over the trying hills
I said nothing of a complaint, complaint about the way you ride,
For not many have stopped beside, and not many have ever tried
To help me through the walks I hide, it’s best the way that you do ride
When right over the trying hills, your bicycle offers such thrills
That no said prayer ever fulfils.