The bygone bike stood ever since WW1.

The handlebars as curved as Wolverines claws.

The light as bright as Iron Man unibeam.

The wheels are a phoenix’s ball of fire.

Spokes,

as loud as a rocket launcher,

firing,

through the waste land,

towards the enemy.

Cogs clatter like tap shoes.

A crisp chain coughs.

Pedals, dangle

jumping, jolting.

The saddle perches like an eagle on its stand.

The bygone bike stood ever since WW1.