In the tinkling pitch
Of the biker’s bell
Lies a charm to quell
Imps, smelling like fitch .

Flattened in asphalt,
Gremlins can spring,
And havoc machine
With myriad faults .

Perking pointed ears
For the battuto purr
Of engine whir—
Piqued to ravage gears .

The ogre prowls for motorcycle growl,
but a jingle pains the monster to howl .

*[ WSB ]_.