On a velocipede made for one – somewhere in England in the mid 1870s.

On a velocipede made for one – somewhere in England in the mid 1870s.

“Straddle the saddle

Paddle and skedaddle

Until into a staddle

Stone you do ride!”

Ouch! And all are

Cross, bar none.

The staddle-stone owner

Was none to happy;

Though, normally, a happy sort of chappy;

But, the cyclist – a loner

And, now a pain-groaner

Had naddled his grunions – he had!

He later spoke much of his choice

In buying this ‘thing’

And in such a high voice

That the glassware did ring –

And a Champagne flute broke

From the strain.

Our Velocipedist did the Anglo-Saxon language enlist

To describe how he felt when he’d landed;

The ladies did blush

The Gentlemen present said “Hush!”

And a ‘scallywag type’ he was branded.

The Velocipede of this injured chap’s mishap,

Was bartered for scrap;

And was never to set sail again;

For the man with high voice

Waited for Messrs. Rolls and Royce

To invent something that was not quite such a pain.

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