I plod along
as best I can.
Thinking miles ahead.
Oh, I'll be happy
when I'm done.
If I don't before drop dead.

I've run ten miles.
I'm bushed and beat.
My legs are getting sore.
It's tough to think
I must go on
for only sixteen more.

I'm halfway home
and then five miles.
Only eight to go.
I really wonder
what I'm doing
and I just don't know.

The finish line.
I now know why
I go out to compete.
It's so tomorrow
I can brag
about my aching feet.