My thoughts make flowers bend,
And even artificial ones do tend
Their stiff petals to send,
Towards the sunset.
They say that some of them, and,
The iciest, I presume, pretend
To perform their rituals to the end,
And make me pay my final debt.
I read them in the stars and
Idly I tell my story to the end,
Pedalling, over the handlebar I bend,
I'm free to go, there's no threat.
