by Nick Gisburne
If you were blind we’d beat you... maybe not.
The race is yours. Why punish us? Why run?
We’re seven thousand dog degrees too hot.
Not one of us can bear to see the sun.
A crazy competition. Is it fair?
We’re each at least a suitcase size the worse.
We lied when we pretended not to care.
An ambulance would help us, or a hearse.
We’ll never catch you, baffled by the bet.
Still waiting for the start, we’re out of breath,
But don’t discount our stamina, not yet -
We’re all a dozen sweaty steps from death.
Be merciful. Be gracious. We concede.
We don’t know what we’re doing. Blame the weed.
