, ,

What’s the name they give it?
Chris Froome is pedalling squares,
As Aru and Bardet sail past him,
As if he’s unawares.

He lost his yellow jersey,
And a his aura faded, too,
He’ll have to steal it from the back,
Of Fabio Aru.

They climbed, they fell, they climbed again,
They just missed caravans,
It was the most compelling stage,
Of this year’s Tour de France.

Exciting and unpredictable,
These empty shells of men,
Dragging themselves up Peyragudes,
For Bardet to win again.