THEY say he lives on hard, black bread, With a very little fish, And a herring with an onion seems, To him, a festal dish. He drinks a little water, then He hustles forth to win— He makes them look like signposts, The whizzing, flying Finn! His legs are steel and rubber, His feet just skim the track— They get a view, in transit, Of his bony, sinewy back— The gun cracks—and they're started— But the race is done and "in"— A fine, fat chance to conquer The bounding, flying Finn! |