The motor-bicyclist…
He scours the planet spanning internet
For spare parts both day and night
A friction clutch, some decent studs
And a decent (cheap) headlight
Disappears into the workshop
To the wife’s forbearing sighs
And she knows not to berate him
As he curses the lost cable ties
Soon the Franken-bike stands completed
A-gleaming in morning sun…
But hide the kiddies from the cursing…
“Do you think I can get the damn thing to run?!”
So he checks and then he rechecks,
The CDI, the plug, the slide and jet
Hmm… why is there a smell of petrol
And why is the garage floor soaking wet?
Its ALIVE, in a cloud of blue-white smoke
And he dances round the room
A monoxide inebriated motor sprite
In a fume filled and dusky gloom
And the wife will frown with worry
As the ex lawnmower rattles into life
Man and bike disappear into the distance
Risking limb and strife.
And he’ll rattle back most likely moaning
That the motors missing or he bust a spoke
And more than once she’ll wonder why
She ever married the bloke
The days roll by and he tinkers
Makes a change, adds this or that
When he says he wants another one
She says “it’s either me or that!”
But on the very rare occasions,
When his bike runs perfect the whole day
The motor-bicyclist wouldn’t have his life
Any other way….
© Jemma Hawtrey 2008
He scours the planet spanning internet
For spare parts both day and night
A friction clutch, some decent studs
And a decent (cheap) headlight
Disappears into the workshop
To the wife’s forbearing sighs
And she knows not to berate him
As he curses the lost cable ties
Soon the Franken-bike stands completed
A-gleaming in morning sun…
But hide the kiddies from the cursing…
“Do you think I can get the damn thing to run?!”
So he checks and then he rechecks,
The CDI, the plug, the slide and jet
Hmm… why is there a smell of petrol
And why is the garage floor soaking wet?
Its ALIVE, in a cloud of blue-white smoke
And he dances round the room
A monoxide inebriated motor sprite
In a fume filled and dusky gloom
And the wife will frown with worry
As the ex lawnmower rattles into life
Man and bike disappear into the distance
Risking limb and strife.
And he’ll rattle back most likely moaning
That the motors missing or he bust a spoke
And more than once she’ll wonder why
She ever married the bloke
The days roll by and he tinkers
Makes a change, adds this or that
When he says he wants another one
She says “it’s either me or that!”
But on the very rare occasions,
When his bike runs perfect the whole day
The motor-bicyclist wouldn’t have his life
Any other way….
© Jemma Hawtrey 2008
