As I'd 'eard wos the pitch for a spry lydy
cyclist as longed for a lark.
Larks, Charlie! It's spruce, and no
pickles! You know I fly cool without fidge,
But I wosn't prepared for the toppers as
treddle it nigh Chelsea Bridge.
No slow Surrey-siders, my pippin, but smart
bits o' frock from Mayfair;
It took me aback for a jiff, tho' of course
I wos speedy all there.