Give me a race that is run in a breath,
  Straight from the start to the “tape;”
Distance hath charms, but a “Ding Dong” means death,
  Death without flowers and crape.

“On your mark,” “Set,”—for a moment we strain,
  Held by a leash all unseen;
“P’ff,” we are off, from the pistol we gain
  Yards, if the starter’s not keen.

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