It’s my bike

My Bike

By Henry Tudor

It’s my bike, it’s twenty one years old

A large frame, solid, purple pink and gold

It’s my bike, large and it doesn’t even fold

It’s my bike, so never will it be sold.

Always there, hanging in the shed

Never cleaned only oiled, never ever bled

It’s my bike, no money, on it ever fed

It’s my bike, I’ll keep it ‘til I’m dead.

Seen new bikes, seats high in the air

Carbon frames, so little tread  to spare

So very light, blow away in the air

Not my bike, ‘cos  we are a pair.

It’s my bike.

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