The Cyclist Mad

The Cyclist Mad, that was his name

a hundred and twenty years ago.

A child glad that sailed the same

through sunshine and through shadow.

And whisked he on the wind a tune

then rolling, wheeling like a balloon

atop his rosy, blustering cycle

then plunging downward for a while.

But peculiar tides beat at his seat

freewheeling now 'twas not so sweet

tat-tat, beguiled in a cloud of stardust

smokeringed, blithering, wanderlust. 

And when he came back down again

not child form but a sign most deign

and curiously wonder at the girl beside

most magically taken on the ride.