MARATHON

MARATHON

Twenty six miles

You’ve to run,

Blistered feet

Oh what fun.

Thronging mass

Hear the starting gun,

Burning and aching limbs

And you’ll be done.

Three miles in

Your feet are sore,

Your mouth is dry

And your lips are raw.

You get passed

By a woman of eighty four,

What the hell

Are you doing this for?

Eight miles through

On the edge of town,

You now get passed

By a ten foot clown.

You cannot go on

You’ll let everybody down,

You fall in the river

And try to drown.

Ten hours later,

You stagger through the tape,

Your knees are swollen

Your mouth agape.

Why did you do it?

You’re so out of shape.

It was for this little medal

Around your neck they drape.

Phil Hall  May 2013