Biker Martyn (For My Son Martyn)

 

"I'm going to run you over!"

Biker Martyn said.

"Oh no your not." Said, daddy.

"It's time to go to bed."

Well, he trundles around the kitchen.

Then out into the hall.

Hangs left, into the living room;

Parks up beside the wall.

 

"Ya can't come in!  It's not allowed."

"Oh yes, it is.”  Said, dad.

Then comes the vocal revving - Vroom!

And vrooms off again, like mad.

He races off at breakneck speed.

Right past his poor old dad.

Burning up the carpets again;

Biker Martyn's super slab.

 

He's one of those Hells Angels.

Riding his motorbike.

It's one of those turbocharged thingamies

A durable plastic trike.

But, an ill fate awaited him,

As he sped out through the door.

He crashed into the cooker,

And was sprawled out on the floor.

 

Not a mark upon the cooker,

The bike fared just as well.

Unlike, poor biker Martyn.

Whose eyes began to swell.

And when the tears were flowing,

With quivering lips he said.

"I'm sore and tired now daddy."

"Please take me up to bed."