Classic Poem

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old bike there?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
And its battered old frame brings the tears to my eyes;
'Tis bound with a thousand bands to my heart,
Though the sprocket's bent and the links are apart.
Would you know the spell? My grandma sat there,
Upon that old saddle, and zipped through the air.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
That old machine, with listening ear,
For grandma's shrieks through the house would ring
If I even happened to touch the thing.
She told me to wait until she dies,
Then I could take it and learn to ride.
And once I caused her to tear her hair,
When I cut the tire of that old wheel there.
'Tis old, 'tis wrecked, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and with throbbing brow.
'Twas there she sat—ah, how she could ride,
With grandpa humping along at her side!
Say it is folly, call it a joke,
But the scrap-man can't have even a spoke,
For I love it, I love it, and can not bear
To part with my grandma's old bike there!