In A Builders Back Yard Poem by Phil Ward

My bike's the only transport I have to get around,
I use it nearly every day in and out of town,
Strange things I see don't shock me, I'm quite acclimatised,
But what I saw the other day had me rub my eyes.

A sight I've not forgotten,
It didn't have a lot on,
Framed in Denim cotton,
It was a cheeky builder's bottom.

I thought it was a fixture,
Of alabaster mixture,
I rammed my wheel in good and tight,
Secure and holding it upright,
From the place I squeezed my wheel,
The whole dam world could hear the squeal.

His head was down a man hole,
How was I to know?
A space was all I wanted
to park my bike and go,
Shaken and shocked I stumbled back,
When I realised it wasn't a cycle rack,
And the four letter words that I got back,
In some sort of builder's lingo.

Oh, Mr Builder I'm sorry,
For the place where I parked my front wheel,
I didn't mean to make you start,
And force your pearly cheeks apart,
I thought you were a work of art,
Call it quits and it's a deal.