The weary traveller rests,

in a dark and dusty shed.

The moss forms like a blanket,

hugging the frame tight like a teddy bear.

The wheels used to spin like racing cars,

but now poison ivy weaves

between the delicate spindles.

Their endless turning is now extinct.

The handlebars used to look brand new,

now they are rusty and grim

like Gloom Castle

the foul, fragile bars groan when you try to move.

The bell is rotten and wrinkled by time,

the joyful ding ding has vanished for good

Replaced by the sad dong dong

this is its dying song.  Bye Bye Mr Bell.