If employed at manor gardens, this is particularly true,
For we are dogged by a gremlin, who tips you off your 'bike'
Maybe he's one of those spartans, who think that you should hike.
He seems to hold A grudge against solicitors and such,
He Bruises flesh and breakes the bones, to put them on A crutch,
He bends their 'bikes', distorts the wehhels and twist the handle bars,
You'd think he's the marque de sade, batle trained on plantet mars.
But no, he isn't really there, he is a figment of your mind,
Though if you do not concentrate, then your control he'll find,
He'll patiently await his chance to catch you off your gurd,
the bike he'll seize, then time will freeze (my gawd that groung is hard).
So watch it when you are cycling along a country lane,
Just concerate upon the road, and let him wait in vain
E.H. White
