I was inside but for a moment, and this time
Never thought to lock the chain,
No sign of my battered, blue Schwinn with the squeaky rear brake,
You must have pedaled like the devil on the North wind,
Vile, wretched, rat-faced incubus,
I know your kind too well, you see,
Too bad your baggy jeans didn’t
Get caught in the whir of spokes,
It would have been worth a bent frame
To see your ****** faceplant asphalt painting,
I demand satisfaction in teeth and nails
Plucked from living flesh, Oh Karma,
One pulled for each bus ride I’m forced into,
One for each mile trekked that should have been yours,
You, after all, should be used to walking until,
Like youth’s dreams in old age,
Your shoes have come apart at the seams.
Didn’t your dad buy you a bike?
Or did his hands give you nothing but boxed ears,
When he was there, maybe he wasn’t so often?
Does my loss smooth the rock in your gut?
Do you bear greater burdens than this petty guilt?
For the theft of one battered old bicycle,
Do you deserve the full heft of my considerable ire,
Heaped on like firewood, too big to burn at once?
I know not what desperation
Could lead one to take such a homely contraption.
How pampered my sensibilities compared with yours,
Perhaps here is character I need to build,
And you need it more than I. Forgive me.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
I was inside but for a moment, and this time
Never thought to lock the chain,
No sign of my battered, blue Schwinn with the squeaky rear brake,
You must have pedaled like the devil on the North wind,
Vile, wretched, rat-faced incubus,
I know your kind too well, you see,
Too bad your baggy jeans didn’t
Get caught in the whir of spokes,
It would have been worth a bent frame
To see your ****** faceplant asphalt painting,
I demand satisfaction in teeth and nails
Plucked from living flesh, Oh Karma,
One pulled for each bus ride I’m forced into,
One for each mile trekked that should have been yours,
You, after all, should be used to walking until,
Like youth’s dreams in old age,
Your shoes have come apart at the seams.
Didn’t your dad buy you a bike?
Or did his hands give you nothing but boxed ears,
When he was there, maybe he wasn’t so often?
Does my loss smooth the rock in your gut?
Do you bear greater burdens than this petty guilt?
For the theft of one battered old bicycle,
Do you deserve the full heft of my considerable ire,
Heaped on like firewood, too big to burn at once?
I know not what desperation
Could lead one to take such a homely contraption.
How pampered my sensibilities compared with yours,
Perhaps here is character I need to build,
And you need it more than I. Forgive me.