I’m not a chipper chopper, of that there is no doubt.
My wings have flown, my legs are blown,
my riding has no clout.
The hill before me’s massive, the one behind is huge.
My drink’s been spiked, I’ve been out pysched
I’m sensing subterfuge.
No longer rollin’ easily, I’m rollin’ backwards fast.
My claim to be a rider,
Proves I’m hopelessly miscast.
I struggle with the reasons, my riding’s uninspired.
I must take stock and deal with shock;
Just Face it lad – you’re tired.
Time and time again, my deluded sense of invincibility reveals itself. Boy did I struggle up those hills on the weekend. Is a break needed? Possibly. Probably, but quite, quite unlikely. Bludgeon forward! Onwards and downwards I say ….
Image: jazzed up via a random image I found and played with. Bad poetry undeniably mine.