From The Topeka State Journal, December 20, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. Hank annexed a motorcycle Of the chugging, snorting kind, Then he went and called for Sadie And she clambered on behind. Through the city street they snorted Forty-seven miles an hour, Scaring people, dogs, and horses, Always crowding on more power. Sadie wrapped both arms around him And she hung on for dear life, Faster, faster, cutting through the Atmosphere just like a knife. Jolting, jarring, popping, snapping, Like the fourth day of July, On the wings of John D.’s petrol Did our Hank and Sadie fly. Hank he hollered: “Honest, Sadie, Ain’t it what you might call bliss? ’Tis a cinch, my little lady, I could ride through life like this.” “There ain’t nuthin’ to prevent it,” Screamed our Sadie in his ear, But the motor was so noisy, Hank could not exactly hear. Seven times did Sadie scream and Try to make him understand; Finally he got her answer And he blushed to beat the band. Then he turned around to kiss her. ’Tis a foolish thing to do When you’re on a bumpy highway, And you’re hitting fifty-two. Some time later they were rescued, They were hanging in a tree; Sadie, she was bruised and shaken, Hank had just a busted knee. In the hospital they married, Showing that they still had spunk, Then he sold the motorcycle To a man who dealt in junk. That was many moths ago and Now on cycles they don’t ride. But they run a horseless carriage With a cherub tucked inside.