The Rhyming Started Here

Once a week some old friends meet
Somewhere bustling, not at all discreet
It’s become a ritual,
No place habitual, just
Out and around.

They may be getting on
But they’re not getting
Full and round.
They are athletes of yore
Sportsmen to the core
With a great rapport, that is
Full of sound.
We share a common hobby,
And how we like our coffee, that is
Full and round.

They may be getting on
And they think they’re cursed.
But they’re not the worst,
Of those with powers in reverse.
Zesty, insatiable,
Fit and capable,
Mechanically sound.

They may like going on
About this and that and thon,
But there’s joy to be found
In the glories of their past
And the tales are made to last, as they
All resound.

Over casual analysis
Of national paralysis,
Arguments unfounded,
Neither full nor rounded,
Help to keep me grounded.
While the drinks keep on coming
And the grinder’s always humming
To make us coffee, that is
Full and round.

We’re trapped in isolation
For a long duration
So we can’t get around.
A cold coming round here
Just the worst time of year
To be kept in the pound.
With one cycle buddy,
And the roads so cruddy,
Who’ll leave their study, with
Ice thick on the ground

Two mad bikers shoot on a quick-hit route,
A circuit out to Oaks, neither short nor cute, but
Full and round.
Past spires and farms, with their frosty charms
And several alarms caused 
By the ice on the ground.

The white blue hills hold us in thrall
They are renowned.
The Wrekin, Caer Caradoc, and all
Majestic and unspoiled they sprawl 
And still astound.

Then complacency strikes as we cycle below
On ice.  No snow to soften the blow
As I hit the ground.
No sound, then a van offering rescue,
My ribs ablaze, hip black and blue,
A bruise to amuse the rest of the crew,
Full and round.

Just how we like our coffee.

Britain