Knees popped and locked,
They line up at the start,
Portly, bulging: ready.
Their hearts thumping,
Frantically thinking back,
To days when it was fun.
All eyes are on them,
Ice creams held unlicked,
The hopes of all Year Six.
They know it's on the line,
Competition still inside,
One of them has spikes.
No "B of the Bang",
Just a "Go" from the Head,
And they’re (kinda) off.
Ground thunders.
Bellies a maelstrom.
Aortas aborting.
The jangle and jangle,
Coins against keys,
Back pocket symphony.
Tim from 2B screams,
His dad now immortal,
Crosses the line by yards.
The race is over
In 50 yards of agony
Every dad a winner (apparently)