Heh, except, I don't think passing that around as Bike to Work Week coordinator would reflect perfectly well on me ....

O_o

I couldn't make out what he was saying. Truly.

Lucky for you I have insomnia. Couldn't get a couple of words in the first verse, but otherwise I think it's good.

Put my foot to the pedals, slip it in the basket
No helmet so maybe I'll end up in a casket
Prematurely, yo, knock on oak
Abdominal rockin' on spokes
Resting on rubber by Continental
On the vintage frame from [?] made of metal
Mid 80s factory paint with the white trim - not following?
I know cycling, my man, legs like Tyson's
Thirty-one years old, still don't have my driver's license
For real so fuck a automobile
And big ups to all those people pushin' those two wheels
Before I had this mic career
I was on the streets hustling as a bike courier
Now I'm catching transatlantic flights
But when the tour's done it's back on the bike
[...] when I'm rhymin', my breath
Neverending like as if I had a [mine?] for a chest
Treat a beat like the Tour de France
Verses earnin' me the yellow jersey like Lance
Uncontested champ with consecutive wins
Clockwise wheel motion, like a record it spins
All day in the saddle 'til my tush hurts
Abs, certified pedal pusher

Squirt a little Cross Country on the chain
Get a fresh rag, wipe down the frame
Ready to go, tie my army pants at the knees
Already have enough pants covered in grease
Slip on a Discman,
Eyes so sharp they do they the listenin'
while supplying vision at the same time
Waste no time to slide my ride into a break in the line of traffic
Don't ask me why, man, for some reason I need a matchstick
In between my lips to help me concentrate
till I hit that zone where there's no need to contemplate
Every movement
muscle memory computin'
the conclusions quicker than the thinking mind,
strictly relying on instincts to wind
through this river of grime
with exhaust pipes, potholes,pigeons,
streetcar tracks you could slip in
Pedestrians, potential door prizes
Pretty girls to divert your eyes
At that crucial juncture
And of course the constant possibility of a puncture
Pollution to make your lungs strain,
All the same, fuck a country lane
Not the same rush as bikin' in rush hour
Hit the florist if I wanna touch flowers
That's for old people on bike tours
I'm in the city, flying over sewers
Not the fastest on a straightaway
But in downtown traffic I'll lay you to waste
Straight up man so don't test my mettle
My name's Abdominal, and I push pedals