The rusted old bike leaned against the ancient silver birch, yawning,

Its pedals creak like a baby mouse’s squeak,

Cobwebs surround its rotting cogs,

Its bell is an ear-piercing beep,

Handlebars jut out quick as a click,

Its saddle is as squat as a mushroom,

The handlebars –  all weedy and mad,

And something unexpected on the light – a doll?!

Our old friend sighs and goes to bed.