did gyre and gimble in the Square:
All mimsy were the Steady ride,
and the forecast was fair.
“Beware the Frocesterwock, my son!
The ramps, the bends, the close pass lorries!
Beware the Edgewards drag, and shun
the crasherous descent of Blackquarries!”
Six took their winter bikes in hand;
Long miles the manxome hill they sought—
Through Edge (where one turned home) they pedalled,
Whiteshill, Selsey, deep in thought.
Then turning left, they spied their foe,
the Frocesterwock, dark tarmaced loomed,
and gravity’s claws began to snatch,
brave riders surely doomed?
One, two! One, two! And through and off!
The winter bikes went clicker-clack!
Some spin, some grind, but five ascend,
and three to Dursley for a snack.
“And hast thou climbed the Frocesterwock?
And hadst thou cake and coffee?
Eastington! Saul!, no homeward hills!
Just a freezing headwind, sorry.”
’Twas chilly, and the Tempo ride
did gyre and gimble in the Square:
All mimsy were the Steady ride,
and the forecast was fair.