"Because in New Orleans, everybody gets to be a jerk sometimes."
Quoth: "A mournful cry escapes my lips/someone stole my rubber grips."
What's next to go? The pedals? The wheels? When the bike is stripped down to the skeleton, perhaps you can give it a proper funeral and burial - along with another ode.
Yes, Mimi, this will not end well, I fear.
The handwriting is on the wall....
...and the scavenger gods walk by night!
What fun, Arthur. Don't you love the little riffs that sometimes happen in blog comments? I know I do.
This risks becoming ode-ious.
Hey, Robert & Mimi, let's not lose sight of the fact that's a bicycle out there that needs our love, okay? Thanks! A.
poor widdle bike. :'(
Thanks for sharing, Termite. I will convey your sympathies next time I open the door.
T., I just noticed the time stamp on your comment. Go to bed!