Hill Shakes Tear

A bike lane. In the middle, a biker boiling. Thunder.

Biker (to Lexus). Ever wonder why you seem to be driving with such ease up the busy Chinatown corridor during rush hour on the heels of a storm?

I have a feeling you know. As I park myself upon your front bumper, you don't yell, honk, or swerve. Oh yeah, you know, or I would be Flat Stanley, white cyclist spread across this lane.

And you pass me and match my moves? Touche. Alas, it is not nearly so simple to ride your back bumper. Adieu, my Lex, adieu.

But soft, red light through yonder wind doth brake
There to the east, that cop with radar gun
Arise, my fun, and halt that car buffoon
Who is already sick and pale with grief
Who? Me? What? This lane? To be or not to be.

Eye of newt and toe of frog
Wool of bat and tongue of dog
My bag of tricks, an uncast spell
Tucked away gestures, speak not of hell
Ha! Pulled you over! I needn't cuss
Leave this lane for BIKE AND BUS!

(in childlike sing song voice);
Double double you're in trouble
Take my lane, he burst your bubble
Cop and car sitting just past G
P-A-S-S-I-N-G!!!