• The wheels revolve at speed
    The winds blows no acolade
    The machine which is no steed
    begins to quickly fade.

    The Legs begin to lull
    The lungs start to burn.
    The pack begins pull
    away from ones in turn

    As he rides it all alone
    More begin to join in
    The spirits show a tone
    Of defeat and ruin

    When reaching end of day
    They dismount each steed
    Scribes shall hinder the way
    back were they find mead

    Day after day they tour
    Until the month is out
    But it all a part of the alure
    Some show joy, or pout

    As the winner stands above
    all who wanted the same
    begin to push and shove
    just to hide their shame