"Look out, mama, there's a white boat coming down the river" ~ from Neil Young's "Powderfinger"
Damned little makes me happier than riding a bicycle – except maybe a motorcycle. For our purposes today, though, it's the human-powered invention usually attributed to a 19th century French man who was allergic to horses(hit).
I pedal, I thrive. Rhythmic grooves arrive. I bob my head in time as my legs go to the Derby, pumping energy through chain to wheels barely more mechanical than a chariot. Good lawd, I loves you, Porgy!
And when I'm feeling good, I want to the whole neighborhood to hear it.
Thus I break out in song. Lately, Powderfinger.
I lustily howl the quoted opening line--then forget virtually every other word except
Red means run, son, numbers add up to nothing from a following verse where the father advises the rebel son bravery isn't everything. Then – no kidding – I go into Rod Stewart's Maggie May