The wheel broke, it didn’t roll
A numbness in the mind blinded
Stamping feet to no avail
It’s a wheel roll, dam roll
Bearings froze on a warm day
The eyes wide to the need of lubrication
Distressed of industry, foul, vital, dark
Spit proves the point.
To render fat or distill crude
In every sense of the word
The remnants, congealed grease
Petrified, purified, paleo dermis
How many more of us will it take
Till we can die and leave enough
To make grease oil and tar.
And then will there be a bicycle
Needing such gunk.