SONG OF THE SCORCHER.
(After reading the Protests and Plans of the Cyclophobists)
I know I'm a "scorcher," I know I am torcher
To buffers and mivvies who're not up to date;
But grumpy old geesers, and wobbly old wheezers,
Ain't goin' to wipe me and my wheel orf the slate.
I mean to go spinning and 'owling and grinning
At twelve mile an hour through the thick of the throng.
And shout, without stopping, whilst, frightened and flopping,
My elderly victims like ninepins are dropping,—
"So long!"
The elderly bobby, who's stuffy and cobby,
Ain't got arf a chance with a scorcher on wheels;
Old buffers may bellow, and young gals turn yellow,
But what do I care for their grunts or their squeals?
No, when they go squiffy I'm off in a jiffy,
The much-abused "scorcher" is still going strong.
And when mugs would meddle, I shout as I pedal—
"So long!"
Wot are these fine capers perposed by the papers?
These 'ints about lassos and butterfly nets?
To turn scorcher-catchers the old pewter-snatchers
In 'elmets must take fewer stodges and wets!
Wot, treat hus like bufflers or beetles! The scufflers
In soft, silent shoes, turn Red Injins? You're wrong!
It's all bosh and bubble! I'm orf—at the double!—
"So long!"
Owner (as the car insists upon backing into a dike). "Don't be alarmed! Keep cool! Try and keep cool!"
[Friend thinks there is every probability of their keeping VERY cool, whether they try to or not!]
Village Constable (to villager who has been knocked down by passing motor cyclist). "You didn't see the number, but could you swear to the man?"
Villager. "I did; but I don't think 'e 'eard me."
The Joys of Motoring.—No, this is not a dreadful accident. He is simply tightening a nut or something, and she is hoping he won't be much longer.