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.
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Comments about this poem (Bicycle Courier by Alan Bruce Thompson )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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