Do you know Gus? Now, he should interest you.
The girls adore him - or he thinks they do.
He owns a motor bike, not of the sort
That merely cough a little bit, or snort.
His is a fiery, detonating steed
That makes the town sit up and take some heed
A thunderous thing, that booms and roars a treat,
With repercussions that awake the street.

That's Gus. Dead flash. One of the rorty boys,
Whose urge is to express themselves with noise,
He wakes the midnight echoes, when to sleep
We vainly strive, with detonations deep.
And Gus has visions, as he thunders by,
Of maidens who sit up in bed, and sigh,
'It's Gus! It's Gus, the he-man. What a thrill!
'Mid Jovian thunders riding up the hill!'

You can't blame Gus. He has to make a row.
He's got to get publicity somehow.
How else could he stir consciousness in us
That in this world there really is a Gus?
You can't blame Gus. But oft I long, in bed,
That some kind man would bash him on the head
A hard, swift blow to give him pain for pain.
It would be quite safe. It couldn't hurt his brain.