Of prospective bruises and taking a chance,
On literally having ants in your pants,
Discomfort in a head that knocks,
Against various pebbles and rocks.
And for what took less than a quarter hour,
There are still remnants after days of showers,
And I find it all a bit uncanny,
How it found it’s way into every nook and cranny.
But I suppose I’d have to do,
With such bragging rights at 42,
And though Paul McCartney is lovely, he too is old,
And I wonder if he’d still do it in the road.