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The Race | ||
| The race begins along the creek As 50 runners hear the shot. They start so fast they seem to streak And jostle for a better spot. The air is crisp, the trail is hard. The leaves have fallen from the trees. The runners never drop their guard, While gasping frigid droughts of breeze. Then one by one they form a line, Adjusting to their own best pace. They still are feeling fresh and fine, In hopes that they will win or place. But as the miles go swiftly by Their strength begins to ebb and fail. They strain with all their might and try In vain to move up from the tail. And when at last the race is o'er They fall exhausted on the ground. They know what they were running for: To persevere, and gain some ground. | ||
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