the race

the poetry of a backdoor, a sudden flash -
you're quitting as soon as possible, time is out
your wonderful plan resulted as one more crash
your precious chance, oh what was it all about

the poetry of a loser, just one more time:
you didn't succeed so pack up your things and leave
in chasing your luck instead of a real dime
an honesty losing everything to the thieves

the mystical backyard, guess what was never there -
a thing you imagined, marvelous magic door,
your customs to wonders, anything to declare,
an excuse to vanish, leaving them count to four

the poetry of surrounded - they'll count to one
then slowly encircle everyone that you've got
and leave you no weapons, no single chance to run,
one option to prove you're worth their only shot

the poetry of the wisest: if you survive
then you'll be the ones with rare protective fold
the race that you're in infrequently leaves alive,
but those who can make it usually take the gold.