GIVE me a race that is run in a breath,
Straight from the start to the "tape;"
Distance hath charms, but a "Ding Dong" means death,
Death without flowers and crape.

"On your mark," "Set,"—for a moment we strain,
Held by a leash all unseen;
"P'ff," we are off, from the pistol we gain
Yards, if the starter's not keen.

Off like lean greyhounds, the cinders scarce stir
Under the touch of our feet;
Flashes of sunlight, the crowd's muffled purr,
The rush of the wind, warm and sweet.

One last fierce effort; the red worsted breaks,
Struggle and strain are all past;
Only ten ticks of the watch, but it makes
First, second, third, and the last.