That the treadmill is jolly salubrious, wich that is mere turning
about,
Upon planks 'stead o' pedals, my pippin. No, wheeling _as_
wheeling's 'ard work,
And that, without larks, is a speeches of game as I always did
shirk.

_I_ ain't one o' them skinny shanked saps, with a chest 'ollered
out, and a 'ump,
Wot do records on roads for the 'onour, and faint or go slap off
their chump.
You don't ketch _me_ straining my 'eart till it cracks for a big
silver mug.
No; 'ARRY takes heverythink heasy, and likes to feel cosy and snug.

Wy, I knowed a long lathy-limbed josser as felt up to champion form.
And busted hisself to beat records, and took all the Wheel-World
by storm,
Went off like candle-snuff, CHARLIE, while stoopin' to lace up 'is
boot.
Let them go for _that_ game as are mind to, here's one as it
certn'y won't soot.

But there's fun in it, CHARLIE, worked proper, you'd 'ardly
emagine 'ow much,
If you ain't done a rush six a-breast, and skyfoozled some
dawdling old Dutch.
Women don't like us Wheelers a mossel, espech'lly the doddering
old sort
As go skeery at row and rumtowzle; but, scrunch it! that makes