It’s a bicycle to ride
On a death-free roadside,
The killer cars gone to hide,
Busy traffic at its lowest tide
And catastrophe unlikely to glide!
So, why my time now bide?
For its tyres won’t ever slide;
All the slippery muddiness dried,
My concerned eyes, watchful and wide…
Journalists to never report “A rider has died”.
Categories:
muddiness, adventure, courage, death,
Form: Rhyme