(_By a Wild Wheelman. A long way after Rogers_)
Mine be a "scorch" without a spill,
A loud "bike" bell to please mine ear;
A chance to maim, if not to kill,
Pedestrian parties pottering near.
My holloa, e'er my prey I catch,
Shall raise wild terror in each breast;
If luck or skill that prey shall snatch
From my wild wheel, the shock will test.
On to the bike beside my porch
I'll spring, like falcon on its prey,
And Lucy, on _her_ wheel shall "scorch,"
And "coast" with me the livelong day.
To make old women's marrow freeze
Is the best sport the bike has given.
To chase them as they puff and wheeze,
On rubber tyre--by Jove, 'tis heaven!
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