With thy proudly arched backbone a wreck, thy spokes all bent awry,
Though not of late untreasured, now I swear, I do indeed,
If any man says one pound ten, thou art sold, my iron steed.
Straight shot right o’er thy patent head, my spill no easy kind,
All smashed and low thou liest now: I’m sore before—behind.
A stranger who’ll the trifle pay right fain would I behold,
And then, my bicycle, farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold.
Farewell! this knee, these tired limbs full many a mile must roam
To reach the railway—then, oh my! where’s cash to take me home?
Some other plan must I contrive ere I to bed repair