Bloody Cyclists

I was walking, with my shopping, not too slowly, fairly hopping, when a bell goes ting-a-ling in my left ear,
Then this thing in shiny lycra, like a man-powered Nissan Micra, goes shooting past and knocks my carriers clear.

And I'm lying on the ground, trying to focus, sight unsound, and this lanky youth calls out, Hey, you OK?
He's in Spandex head to toe, the athletic so-and-so, and he's barely nineteen years, if he's a day.

I say, do I look OK to you, and other stuff, the air was blue, but he just shrugs and makes to pedal off,
I say, you're going to leave me here?  Yes, that was my rough idea, you're fine, he has the very nerve to scoff.

I said, you've knocked me in the dirt, left tyre marks upon my shirt, and my shopping is all scattered in the gutter,
How about some compensation, for the pedestrians of this nation, or words to this effect then did I utter.

But he just shook his suntanned head, said, you're living, you're not dead, just get up and thank your lucky star,
And without the least ado, he rode off, saying, so fuck you, and then was promptly flattened by a car.

So, cyclists, hear me say, please take care when out today, and don't piss off the agéd walking few,
For though we look like easy marks, on our pavements and in parks, we also drive and then we aim at you.

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