Moody Mr Cyclist, why are you so mad?
You’re saddled high, the road flies by, you really should be glad,
You say you find your inner chi when out there on the bike,
But with the slightest altercation anger crashes through the dyke.

Tell me Mr cyclist, but are you really happy?
Or searching for an outlet in a life a little crappy,
The fact you had to touch the brake is not a good excuse,
For that comic rant of hate and bile and biblical abuse,

You say that you’re escaping from the choked commuter farse,
But your face is like a warthog with a cactus up its arse,
Your chilled ‘off-bike’ demeanour’s a deceptive mask of lies,
For the rage in every sinew of your gristled calves and thighs.

So your ride has revolutionised the way you see the world?
But it seems that something’s up, from the abuse that’s being hurled,
I admit I rode a bit too close, and maybe nudged in front,
But it really was an accident, I’m not a “dreadful c***”.

And for all your smuggy righteousness, you always jump the lights,
Like a smarmy two wheeled Robin Hood, in shiny padded tights,
You say that it’s the only way to see you don’t get hit,
But you and I both know that that’s massive crock of s***.

About the other weekend, I brushed passed you on the track,
It was half one in the morning, you were head to toe in black,
And then began the shouting in those stupid girly tights,
Just go and buy a helmet and some twinkly shiny lights.

To wrap this up in earnest, you’re a wally and a twit,
You make the cycling world a target that the taxis want to hit,
So ride your steed with joy and speed and cut the stupid fuss,
Or put it straight back in the shed and take the f*cking bus.