Stunt this cycle, somebody.

Off it pedals on a rutted road of ruts,

through rancid routes of routine.

Crashes through some body,

a body of vying buts.

.

If the chain corrodes & comes loose,

I might fear the world passing by

& may snap trance-free and bat an eye.

Itchy is this handlebar and
so am I.

.

It wheels around, sans

a gain, again back around,

wheels' spokes speak in squeals

like black birds with broken beaks.

Here I arrive, once more the same ground.

Hop out of the cycle now before it craves another round.

.