A Tale of Grizzly Torment
by Iain Hindes
Oh Grizzly oh Grizzly oh Grizzly beware.
I'm coming back next year to rip out your hair.
It's taken seven years but you finally beat me.
You looked and you laughed as I clung to that tree.
It was going so well I think you'll agree.
Moving up through the field into the top twenty.
Then I got to the bog, my favourite bit.
But instead of flying through it, I looked like a tit.
The soles off my shoes the bog did remove.
The left one went first as I struggled to move.
As I slipped down the hill with no grip on one foot.
I called you an arse and gave you a tut.
The mud at the bottom it was deeper still.
Recent downpours of rain had helped it to fill.
Imagine my shock as I waded thigh deep.
When the sole off my good shoe the mud it did keep.
I'd not treated you lightly, they were my Walsh's PB's.
But it seemed that there was now more grip on my knees.
I slipped and I slithered up the climb to the road.
I wanted to swear but there was too much of a crowd.
I was out of the race, not a happy bunny.
But the crowd who were cold thought I looked blooming funny.
A man in his slippers taking on the big bear.
Maybe at Branscombe he'll find a new pair.
At Branscombe Village Hall the ladies were great.
They wrapped me up warm as I realised my fate.
Nice hot cups of tea for the frozen young man.
Even though he keeps mumbling words worse than "damn".
Then a nice young lady offered me a ride.
Back to Seaton, the place where I could find.
The car that contained all of my nice warm clothes.
And my club mates who laughed at my tales and my woes.
Next years revenge I'm already planning.
That big bad old bear is getting a tanning.
So line up your worst, bring the wind and the rain.
Coz in March next year I shall feel no pain.
A big thanks to all of the nice folks who helped me out.
In Branscombe next year I'll stop to give you a shout.
I'm no good at poems, so this is the end.
My next email's to Walsh. Their ears I will bend.
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