Bike

I'm wearing Lycra and straddling steel
All sweat and leg and churning wheel
I draw weird looks and some wolf cries
But focus on my screaming thighs

Hunkered down, yeah I'm a Pro
Speedo says, "more miles to go,"
So I grit my teeth, spit out those flies
And say inside, "MAN UP YOU THIGHS!"

Then come the cars, so near they buffet
Us Lycra'd nutters, forced to rough it
So far so good, I will survive
The cars armed with gown and scythe

My home is a pancake plain
Hot and dry and not much rain
Rolling roads, few pitching highs
Still I suffer, wasting thighs!

The season builds, Le Tour De France,
Instantly I sound the ponce
Listing favourite 'Maillot Jaunes'
A fortnight of my girlfriend's yawns