Bicycle Courier Poem by Alan Bruce Thompson

I must try to fly, bike there very fast,
Speed this very second like my last.

A courier like me, with precious mail,
Can’t afford to be slowed down by a snail.

Down the streets the wrong way, jump the light,
I’m careless by day, without light by night.

I race with the tidings of gloom and despair,
To gain speed I shave my legs and my hair.

I try to be there almost before I begin,
I bring warnings of death, of fear, and of sin.

I replaced the stage coach, before me they flee,
Now the electronic courier will overtake me.