Wy, I knowed a long lathy-limbed josser as felt up to champion form. 
  And busted hisself to beat records, and took all the Wheel-World
          by storm,
  Went off like candle-snuff, Charlie, while stoopin’ to lace up ’is
          boot. 
  Let them go for that game as are mind to, here’s one as it
          certn’y won’t soot.

  But there’s fun in it, Charlie, worked proper, you’d ’ardly
          emagine ’ow much,
  If you ain’t done a rush six a-breast, and skyfoozled some
          dawdling old Dutch. 
  Women don’t like us Wheelers a mossel, espech’lly the doddering
          old sort
  As go skeery at row and rumtowzle; but, scrunch it! that makes
          a’rf the sport!

  ’Twas a bit of a bother to learn, and I wobbled tremenjus at fust,
  Ah! it give me what-for in my jints, and no end of a thundering
          thust;
  I felt jest like a snake with skyattica doubling about on the loose,
  As ’elpless as ’ot calf’s-foot jelly, old man, and about as much
          use.

  Now I don’t like to look like a juggins, it’s wot I carn’t
          stand, s’elp my bob;
  But you know I ain’t heasy choked off, dear old pal, when I’m fair
          on the job. 
  So I spotted a quiet back naybrood, triangle of grass and tall
          trees,
  Good roads, and no bobbies, or carts.  Oh, I tell yer ’twas “go as
          yer please.”

  They call it a “Park,” and it’s pooty, and quiet as Solsberry Plain,
  Or a hold City church on a Sunday, old man, when it’s welting with
          rain;
  Old maids, retired gents, sickly jossers, and studyus old stodges
          live there,
  And they didn’t like me and my squeaker a mossel; but wot did I
          care.

  When they wentured a mild remonstration, I chucked ’em a smart bit
          o’ lip,
  With a big D or two—­for the ladies—­and wosn’t they soon on the
          skip! 
  ’Twos my own ’appy ’unting ground, Charlie, until I could fair
          feel my feet;
  If you want to try wheels, take the Park; I am sure it’ll do you a
          treat.

  I did funk the danger, at fust; but these Safeties don’t run yer
          much risk,
  And arter six weeks in the Park, I could treadle along pooty brisk;
  And then came the barney, my bloater!  I jined ’arf a dozen prime
          pals,
  And I tell you we now are the dread of our parts, and espessh’lly
          the gals.

  No Club, mate, for me; that means money, and rules, sportsman
          form, and sech muck. 
  I likes to pick out my own pals, go permiskus, and trust to
          pot-luck. 
  A rush twelve-a-breast is a gammock, twelve squeakers a going
          like one;
  But “rules o’ the road” dump you down, chill yer sperrits, and
          spile all the fun.