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.