Nasty sperrit, old man; nothink sportsmanlike, surely, about sech a hact!
Them's the sort as complains of hus Cyclists, mere crackpots as ain't got no tact.
We all did a guy like greased lightning; you can when you're once on your wheel—
Stout bobbies carn't run down a "Safety," and gurls can do nothink but squeal.
That's where Wheelin' gives yer the pull! Still it's beastly to think a fine sport
And a smart lot of hathleets like hus must be kiboshed by mugs of that sort.
All boko! dear boy, those Times letters! I mean the new barney to carry,
As long as the Slops and the Beaks keep their meddlesome mawleys orf
'ARRY.