The rusty old bike leaning and gleaming in the midnight sky,

arguing with people as they walk by,

outraged because no one rides it,

The old dirty pedals look like sandals covered by grass,

they wish to escape its miserable moss,

The whining wheels are devastated,

they would love to roll off.

instead they stare hopelessly at the twinkly sky

The handlebars are so tired,

as the heavy rocks sit on it like a fat pig,

The whining saddle stares at the merciful moon,

wishing for earth to swallow it up,

The bike now twinkles into bits as the chrome satisfyingly peels back.