For, mounted on twin engines dread,
Thou rushest (with adventures graphic)
Where even angels fear to tread,
Because there's such a lot of traffic.
At lightning-speed we see thee glide,
(With malice every narrow shave meant),
And charge thine elders far and wide,
Or stretch them prone upon the pavement.
Round corners sharp thou lov'st to dart,
(Thou skating imp! Thou rolling joker!)