The chances of me being your stoker
Are slim, very slim,
@poemcycle.
My comments thus far should’ve woke yer
From your dream that you’ve laureate status.
Were I your passenger wheeling
I’d fear for my ears and my senses.
The tripe you’d be blurting and squealing
Would make other cyclists hate us
My poor bleeding shell-likes would drip
And my brain cells would numb in their skull,
And that tripe from your lips would still trip
As we trundled obtusely along.
And the chatters would flap their pink tongues,
Throw spanners and helmets and shoes.
You’d fight back with crap ditties, drab songs,
Mad lyrics, poor rhyming, dull news.
It’s not going to happen, this two-up.
I won’t be your back-seat buffoon.
Your verse is worse than a screw-up.
Wouldn’t do it; I’ll leave you to it;
@woodenspoons