We are the poorest players in the Sport of KingsnNot being able to eat will make a man meannLately I can't seem to keep myself from questioningnIs it worth the run through the mud just for one moment in the sun?nnOn these reclaimed floodplains and county fairgroundsnAs the ambulance driver keeps chasing us aroundnFor these poor old men who drive their pickups into townnIs it worth us tearing up our guts just for them to have a little fun?nI hate the fat men who own the poniesnAnd their fat hands that hold the cashnFattened billfolds hold more than moneynThey possess the papers and the deeds: the victories of ancestrynnBut our blood is older than this countrynAnd yours at least is far more purenTogether we may create beautynTogether we may achieve something that will endurennWe were born and bred to runnWe were raised and trained to runnWe were paid and persuaded to runnPlus the drugs they push on us to thin our blood and make us run