Rolling down well-ridden roads

It's Bicycle rolling down well-ridden roads
And Wind coming, asking to fight.

The rider crouched down, with not half a frown,
Requesting the wind to abate.
“I'm too oft due east,” shot Wind, shunning peace,
“This year you'll be trapped and made late.”

The ducks flapping east soon flapped without cease;
Wind's gusts spun them 'round with a breeze.
The waves grew white teeth in ditches beneath,
And cans cartwheeled west just to tease.

As days carried on, the cyclist was worn,
But Bicycle would not relent.
Wind slammed to and fro, and Bike had to slow,
Some days down to thirty per cent.

“You do what you please, but hard or with ease
I'll best the flat provinces soon.
You can't stop me long,” said Bike, growing strong,
“(Though Brandon might be a lagoon.)”

I don't know if Bike defeated Wind's might
Or Wind forced him into a pond.
But when cries of “hell!” meet gusts near Qu'Apelle
I'll wager the battle's still on.