Have you heard the low thrum
Of a dozen mopeds
Cresting the rise of a hill?
The carry an air
Of environmental concern,
And always pay their bill.
The drink microbrews,
Read the Huffington post,
And ride to protest warming weather.
They want to be safe,
But they won’t kill a cow,
So instead they’re decked out in fruit leather.
They’ve occupied Wall Street
And conquered small towns.
They adopted Obamacare early.
They wear handmade bling
And fair trade hemp socks
And, only on Facebook, act surly.
And then with a puff
Of carbon-free smoke
They pedal away once again.
They’re Al Gore’s private army,
The Heck’s Angels gang,
Inclusive of GBT men.
The Daily Travesty 