Brave Reluctance (or Donald Whaur's Yer Feathers&;#063;)

In this tale I now relate of childhood pranks in the scheme, no ill
intent or harm was meant ....
though otherwise it may seem.........

It was the early sixties
And I'd learned to go a two-wheeler
In a cloud of dust that bike became
A steed in an old two-reeler

And o'er the plains this cowpoke roared,
"Hey Donald! We're a' gonna catch ye!
For we're a' cowboys and you are
That hostile lone apache!"

And though he peddled as hard as he could
Up the back-road on his wee trike
Too soon he was surrounded by
Us white men, each on his bike.

"I'm fed up being the Indian!"
Young Mathieson he soon griped
"I want to be the cowboy!"
As away the tears he wiped

Just then a knowing smile passed round
Each face from ear to ear -
And with a whoop each brave raced off
To return with a 'warpaint' smear

We took the paleface Donald
And quickly bound his hands
In the absence of both rope and string
He was tied with elastic bands

Then off the hunting party went
Abandoned totem and base camp
So all that was left was the prisoner
On the kerb tied to a street lamp!

Now knicker elastic isn't a laugh
When you're tied up in knots and bands
Especially when you're turning blue
And you just can't feel your hands!

Eventually the alarm was raised
Mother's ears his cries did reach
For along the road in her ain 'back green'
Nellie was 'hingin' a streetch'!

Enter left the returning braves
Who by now had transformed yet again
To Spitfire pilots and racing drivers
And each bike to a car or a 'plane

Down the back-road marched our Nell
The howling Donald on his steed
And in her sights she saw the crew
That had done this dirty deed

I couldn't repeat - if I could recall
What exactly it was she did say
But I don't think that I'll ever forget
The look that slew us braves that day.