I guess an old bicycle is like an old wife
they both get tired and worn
and they both lose their luster

                   Wait!
I could never toss out of my old bike
I guess they are not similar at all!

My wife I'll love, for years to come
But if she would ever pass or leave me
I'll audition a new love, no three
I'll challenge the ladies to a game of fun

I'll make my own game of "Chopped"
They'll cook, I'll taste and evaluate
I must chop one, I won't hesitate
From three to two, they'll be cropped

I have a sophisticated palette or taste
Burgers, pizza, steaks, potatoes sweet
Chefs are ecstatic, pleasant, and neat
Yet I need to stay slender in the waste

Who am I trying to fool or trick
Women won't compete to feed me
If I want to eat, there is one solution I see
"You will have to make a phone call, Slick"

             I've "been chopped!"

Sunshine and blue skies
Snow piles refusing to melt
Awaiting fresh friends

Get off of the brown leather chair and ride
But it's so **** cold in the wintertime
You have a spinning bike downstairs, inside
Maybe later; now I have to write rhyme