Burns Night again - so more cycling poetry

How about a bit of cycling-related poetry. Every year I say I'd like to get into poetry - along with writing that great novel that gets turned into a film! Once again I haven't got round to it, so here are a couple to celebrate while you enjoy a bit of haggis and whisky.  

The first poem has a moral at the end - if only I could ride a horse! The second poem is an ode to a place that many club cyclists go to for warm weather training, and I imagine for the other delights this Balearic Island has to offer!

Mulga Bill's Bicycle

by Andrew "Banjo" Barton Paterson (1896)

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; 
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days; 
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen; 
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine; 
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride, 
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?" 
"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea, 
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
 
I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows, 
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
 
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; 
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
 
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel, 
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel, 
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight: 
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.
" 

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode, 
That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.

He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, 
But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
 
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak, 
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.
 

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box: 
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks, 
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground, 
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
 
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree, 
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be; 
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek 
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.
 

'Twas Mulga Bill from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore: 
He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before; 
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet, 
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
 
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; It's shaken all my nerve 
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
 
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still; 
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."







John Cooper Clarke-Majorca.
null




MAJORCA




By John Cooper Clarke (1976)

Fasten your seatbelts says a voice

Inside the plane you can’t hear no noise 

Engines made by Rolls Royce 

Take your choice 

…make mine Majorca






Check out the parachutes 

Can’t be found 

Alert those passengers 

They’ll be drowned 

A friendly mug says “settle down” 

When i came round i was gagged and bound 

…for Majorca






And the eyes caress 

The neat hostess 

Her unapproachable flip finesse 

I found the meaning of the word excess 

They’ve got little bags if you wanna make a mess 

I fancied Cuba but it cost me less  

…to Majorca






(Whose blonde sand fondly kisses 

the cool fathoms of the blue mediteranean)






They packed us into the white hotel 

You could still smell the polycell 

Wet white paint in the air-conditioned cells 

The waiter smelled of fake Chanel 

Gauloises… garlic as well 

says if i like… i can call him “Miguel” 

…well really






I got drunk with another fella 

Who’d just brought up a previous paella 

He wanted a fight but said they were yella’ 

…in Majorca






The guitars rang and the castinets clicked 

The dancer’s stamped and the dancer’s kicked 

It’s likely if you sang in the street you’d be nicked 

The Double Diamond flowed like sick 

Mother’s Pride, tortilla and chips 

Pneumatic drills when you try to kip 

…in Majorca






A stomach infection put me in the shade 

Must have been something in the lemonade 

But by the balls of Franco i paid 

Had to pawn my bucket and spade 

Next year I’ll take the international brigade 

…to Majorca


























Related Posts




Cycling poems for Burns Night

A bit of cycling poetry

A poem for those cycling challenges