GENder

Bikes are by their nature neither girl nor boy

The colors try to make a difference

The shape the form or slant should mean one

But a bike will always be uni-sexual

It can never be otherwise, it won’t matter.

The bike doesn’t care it will ride between

Any legs, gender be damned.

Advertisements

The Butt Hills

Hauling my butt up a hill sometimes

Seems pointless, its just a butt stuck on legs

Oh, my legs are fine, I feel them.

I know its there because with a tail wind I fly

That wide stretch of spandex gives me speed.

I will pass you on the way down only to see your

skinny ass pass on the way up.

This is my lot, and the most fun I have is sucking up

Slower riders as I pass, giving a draft.

Then as if I were going up hill I push.

Leave them behind behind, my butt getting smaller

I’ll take this butt as it is and marvel at my shoe

Not worry what it fits or how it looks, ah, what it can do

Makes me smile and smile, and it won’t slow me down.

Best Ever

She speaks up often calling to be cared

He was fine and sleek, now shows wear

The same feel piques the senses in the bumpy

Roads of life, and she smooths them over at times.

I can inflate the sense of worth, with a puff of air

With eyes closed, still feel the smoothness

I will dream of him between my legs, and marvel

At how happy I can feel all sweaty and tired even sore

And do it again, then rest and feed, only to tickle the urge

So freely desired.

New rubber, old hands, tight nuts, I understand

I’m a sleep, awake and she is in my mind, I may

Just be walking or holding, and look forward to washing

The dirt, the sweat, the salty residue of our exertion together

Is it no wonder my bike is hung on the wall?

Car Wake

I can understand emotions attached to a car

Attachment to inanimate things even a bar

When time has come for to recycle

Tears flow sharp pains manacle

The spirit free wishing for which not

Doth ponder simpler forms by far alot

But never do the pangs reach louder

When a bike is stolen by some chowder

Headed fumbling dork and now all your

Dreams of pace lines are out the door

Riding alone itching and feeling for sake

But neither draft of beer or layers cake

Will settle the score and dam them far

When left to follow in the wake of a car.

The Best Ever

She speaks up often calling to be cared

He was fine and sleek, now shows wear

The same feel piques the senses in the bumpy

Roads of life, and she smooths them over at times.

I can inflate the sense of worth, with a puff of air

With eyes closed, still feel the smoothness

I will dream of him between my legs, and marvel

At how happy I can feel all sweaty and tired even sore

And do it again, then rest and feed, only to tickle the urge

So freely desired.

New rubber, old hands, tight nuts, I understand

I’m asleep, awake and she is in my mind, I may

Just be walking or holding, and look forward to washing

The dirt, the sweat, the salty residue of our exertion together

Is it no wonder my bike is hung on the wall?