To Ride the Penny-Farthing

Reeking of Clermont-Ferrand male conditioner
and inhaling the religion of St Albans parish,
you waddle over; grey hair, broken specs,
with blueprints of a thoughtless idea I'd cherish.

Hairless brows twitched and drowned by the wayside,
forefinger; gnaws around the continent shores but
to ride the penny-farthing - Victorian my darling isn't
bottle-cap suitable for universal chores.

Ready? Set? To hurdle through time
could invert any aged bayonet-parsnip young.
Perhaps even re-terrier a terrier from Oz
and dictate dear Dorothy to sing when she's sung.

Grey hair, broken specs, how long has it been
since you sprang down with Hades? The promises, the maybe's,
sat crisp upon a high wheel, hawked and ever watchful;
took a ride into Wonderland wearing a St Alban's top hat.

Time travel. Spare your children's information,
the precious past contrasts with present-future,
where handfuls of woven ruby would slip
within the lining, my penny-farthing.

"To hurdle through time!" yes,
I echoed before you hissed,
cloaked in certainty-yellow,
parched with hindsight regret.

Rewinding the spanking bicycle,
baking some sham rekindled attempt
of choking the penny-farthing,
re-lighting this vintage cigarette.