It's the sound of a bike

Which is part of the deal

And the well-oiled whirr

Of the sprocket and wheel

For the sound of a bike

Is distinctly genteel

And is holier now

Than the automobile

And the ching of the bell

On a bend in a lane

And the hack-alley squeak

Of the brakes after rain

And the willow-herb wind

For the ghost of a train

Since the cinderpath track

Became cyclist's domain

But the sound of a bike

Disappears without trace

In the madness of town

And the scrimmage for space

With the cut-up and curse

And the rage on the face

Of contestants engaged

In the circular rage

For the sound of a bike

Has a subtler beat

In the click of its gears

And the crick of its seat

Than the harse metal dirge

Of a gridlocked elite

In their four-wheeled cells

On a five o'clock street