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.