By Howfar?
The Raven (lunatic)
Once upon an evening chilly, while I pondered something silly
Something that I’d spotted in the mag that lay upon the floor
While I sat there, coffee drinking, trying hard to do some thinking
Thought I saw a bright light blinking, blinking just outside my door
“That’s a little odd,” I muttered, “blinking just outside my door-
only this and nothing more.”
I recall the day so clearly, started off quite normal really,
Felt so good when I was running, that I thought I could do more
So I searched for fancy races, in exotic, far off places
I might even get new cases, when I went off to explore
Flicking through the race directory, saw one I could not ignore
“Not done one like that before!”
Thought had only started stirring, brain had just begun its whirring
Now at last I’d found a challenge that I just could not ignore
But I would have been more wary, had I realised something scary
Something that was bald, not hairy, lurked just outside my front door
There he stood in all his glory, sweat was flooding from each pore
He could run for evermore.
Once again I saw the blinking, I was forced to stop my thinking
And I walked across the room to see what lay beyond my door.
I peeked out with trepidation, saw a pool of perspiration
There was the illumination, that was blinking like before
It was Gobi with a headlamp. Was this good? I wasn’t sure.
“Time you started running more!!”
“Heard you fancied longer races, I’ll soon put you through your paces
I am just the coach to help you. I’m not easy to ignore.”
So with little hesitation, I took up his invitation
He leapt up in jubilation, looked more manic than before
“Welcome over to the dark side. This is where it gets hardcore.
Your soul’s mine for evermore!”
Let my story be a warning. If you wake up in the morning
Feeling so good when you’re running that you want to do some more.
Don’t forget the ultra Master. He will have you running faster
Your whole feet will be in plaster, they will blister and be sore.
Running morning, noon and evening, ‘til you drop onto the floor.
Gobi claims a soul once more.
Based very loosely on The Boy Stood On the Burning Deck
HowFar? ran like a limping duck
The rest of Fetch had fled
They’d charged off through the mud and muck
And left the lad for dead.
Confused and out of breath he stood
As he looked at the storm
A creature dripping snot and blood
A frankly hopeless form.
He could not tell which way to go
Without his Master’s word
The rest were miles away, although
Gobi could still be heard.
He’d call aloud…..”Say, Fetchies, say
If I’ve disgraced the club!”
He knew not that the rest all lay
Unconscious in the pub
“Speak, to me,” once again he cried
“Please tell me where you’ve gone.”
But only thunder claps replied
And still the storm rolled on.
Hands on his knees to catch his breath
The sweat dripped from his hair
He felt like he was close to death
He began to despair
He shouted from the fells, aloud
“On these hills must I stay?
I really want to finish now,
But I don’t know the way.”
He sank upon the floor and cried
His energy was spent
He wished he never ventured North
To Hawkshead with his tent
Alone among the bogs and rocks
He cried once more for aid
But Fetchies were comparing socks
In the bar where they stayed.
And he was never seen again
He never did come back
Upon those fells he did remain
Just him and his ruc-sack
But sometimes when the storm clouds loom
And thunder’s in the air
Some people say that through the gloom
They see a real nightmare
A runner who’s all skin and bone
The one they call HowFar?
Left on the fell side all alone
He never made the bar.
Poems By Hoaxster
If you can keep your rhythm when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can pace yourself when all predictors doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can stretch and not get tired of stretching,
Or being psyched out, look 'em straight back in their eyes,
Or being passed, remember all your training,
And yet don't sprint too fast, nor strain your thighs:
If you can blog-and not make blogs your master;
If you can post-and not make Han your aim;
If you can meet with Gobi and the Hoaxster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to read the training you've logged
Where reality meets the dreams of fools,
Or watch the PBs you gave your life to, broken,
And try and break 'em again in worn-out shoes:
If you can make a heap of all your running gear
And cleanse it all in one gentle fabrics wash,
Or get injured, and start again at your beginnings
And never moan, nor give a toss;
If you can force your heart and legs and lungs
To serve your plodding long after they are gone,
And so keep running when there is nothing in you
Except the little voice that screams: "Run on!"
If you can visit Runners World and keep your virtue,
Or being Serious Squad, not lose the common touch,
If neither splints nor wobbly knees can hurt you,
If some Fetchettes stalk you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving hour
With sixty minutes' worth of distance run,
Yours is the World and everything that's in it,
And-which is more-you'll be a Fetchie, my son!
"If" by Hoaxster
If you can keep your rhythm when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can pace yourself when all predictors doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can stretch and not get tired of stretching,
Or being psyched out, look 'em straight back in their eyes,
Or being passed, remember all your training,
And yet don't sprint too fast, nor strain your thighs:
If you can blog-and not make blogs your master;
If you can post-and not make Han your aim;
If you can meet with Gobi and the Hoaxster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to read the training you've logged
Where reality meets the dreams of fools,
Or watch the PBs you gave your life to, broken,
And try and break 'em again in worn-out shoes:
If you can make a heap of all your running gear
And cleanse it all in one gentle fabrics wash,
Or get injured, and start again at your beginnings
And never moan, nor give a toss;
If you can force your heart and legs and lungs
To serve your plodding long after they are gone,
And so keep running when there is nothing in you
Except the little voice that screams: "Run on!"
If you can visit Runners World and keep your virtue,
Or being Serious Squad, not lose the common touch,
If neither splints nor wobbly knees can hurt you,
If some Fetchettes stalk you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving hour
With sixty minutes' worth of distance run,
Yours is the World and everything that's in it,
And-which is more-you'll be a Fetchie, my son!
The Fetch Poems - A collection of running rhymes inspired by the great laureates!
| Recent Updates | User | Comments |
|---|---|---|
| Mar 2007 | Nightjar | Added "If" by Hoaxster (hope formatting works) |