Thundering, the hooves trample my brain,
Their pain and cries bring tears,
If this be love, it be insane,
Such love my heart it sears,
Bucking steers and broncos thrust,
Rider’s ego in the air,
A prize to win they must,
Yet, their method so unfair,
To whom this golden burse,
The golden calf lies in the hearse,
Dead the horse and buried deep,
Yet the Stetson man shouts Heil and Sieg!
A cruel master’s task is cheered,
Fills covers full of gold and praise,
For those the wagon trains have steered,
For horses none a tear would raise,
Another horse you ride to town,
In the saddle of your pride,
Another horse denied its crown,
For of the weight of love it died,
If in a saddle you must ride,
Your ego to fulfill,
To still the longing of your pride,
Climb French Pyrenees Hill,
Must you cruel be to heart and soul,
That saddle stretch your bodies pain,
Make the Tour de France your goal,
Then not cheat, the winner of its gain,
Calves, not horse, your power neath,
The heart the body spry,
The power of your wheels beneath,
As along the road you fly,
Mount Olympus not to high,
Nor valley turns to steep,
Daring down the hills you fly,
Just your will and thrust, a champion’s creed,
Fair this sport in fair design,
Not need to punish but yourself,
Not false victories then you mime,
False trophies, place upon your shelf.
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