My hatred of bicycles has no end to it.
I should see someone on four wheels about this.

A cyclist would never smoke expensive cigars,
The ones rolled secretly by a Cuban exile in LA,

Or the ones with a portrait of the patriot Bolivar -
Yes, I can understand that. But two wheels

Claiming possession of my traffic lane,
Two wheels forcing me into a passive cycling,

Into this abomination with loose chains,
This is beyond words, beyond any walnut

Dashboard. Now I see thin youths, architects
And such like, placing chalk upon the road;

Choking off the lifeblood of traffic, the loveliness
Of motor cars. Of my city they will make a dry dessert:

Here is a doughnut drying in the sun;
Here, the arid bicycle, the granite pedestrian.