The spokes of the bicycle
Would listen and circle
With him who speaks
Language of the liquid.
Not to eyes bulging
From empty pockets.
Smiles would shine
In favour of the spineless
And egoistic big players
Bestriding our world.
Not any hoisting
"No liquid"
When the tale of spokes
And "My Father's Bicycle"
Would come for the ears,
The "Teller" and the "Tellie"
Would spot inspiration
In shortage of liquid flow.
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