His daily commute,
A regular route,
Astride his bike,
A ride to like.
Then weekends came
With more of the same
Riding a “century”,
An adventurer, he.
It came to an end
On a road with no bend
His joy is now hushed,
By a car he was crushed.
But where is the moral,
The memorial laurel?
At bad drivers, I’m pissed.
Patrick, you will be missed!
