The roll and stall
In it we move by
bearings and bushes,
Maybe I thought I heard brushes,
Then we have to spare our blushes,
For in the way we go not by buses,
Even as some think it be what flushes.
So handled tenderly lest
it crushes,
And by shifting motion we find it gushes,
Either fungal or avian both be thrushes,
For a cure many have become lushes,
Yet neither of the first will work for mushes.
