The bike leans,

An old rusty  tree swaying in the sun,

It’s handle bars stick out like cow horns,

As the paint peels of very slowly.

The wheels spun like when you bake a cake,

It sits there waiting for a best friend.

Crome peels of the bike as it starts to fad away Hoping it it will be saved.

Spiders webs shake as the wind blows the bike.

The rubber rusty wheels start to shake as it gets older.

Cogs click a rhythmic beat as you can here the

clatters of the chain. Pedals dangers waiting for a person to spin then like spaghetti.

The bell rings as the strong wind pushes harder then every before.

The saddle wait like a mushroom waiting to be eaten.

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