B is for my Bitches
Who trained without complaint.
And when I said, “800s are fun!”
They didn’t yell, “No they ain’t!”
Through many miles of Monkey
And up eastside’s Wheelchair Hill
The Bitches ran together
Then convened for vats of swill.
And when the cutback weeks arrived
And I bellowed, “Don’t run more!”
My bitches politely said, “No prob,”
While thinking, “Screw you, crack whore.”
We got purple shirts (jealous yet?)
We schooled bitches in a race
We won hideous greenish ashtrays
While slamming Buffalo Trace.
Tempos! MP! Hills! Fartleks!
You did them all and, alas,
Thanks to your stupid dedication
Now you both can kick my ass.