Once upon a morning dreary, half awake and eyesight bleary,
While I fetched the "Daily Herald" lying there outside my door,
As I stood there, stretching, yawning, wond'ring what the day was spawning,
Came a figure through the dawning, fiercely running as to war;
"Who is this," I asked myself, "who runs as if he's off to war?
Just a loony, nothing more."
Striding down the street, he ran there, trotting past each parked sedan there,
Till the air was filled with gasps that I had not heard heretofore;
Soon I knew as he came closer, he was not a loony, no sir,
Or some early-rising grocer racing toward some distant store;
"You're a Jogger," I exclaimed, "and not some grocer with a store!"
Quoth the Jogger, "To the core."
I could see his Pro-Keds clearly, and his perspiration nearly
Soaked right through the cotton sweatshirt and the running shorts he wore;
Shorter breaths he now was taking, and from grunts that he was making,
I felt sure the must be aching from the labors of his chore;
"Does your body ache," I asked, "each time that you perform this chore?"
Quoth the Jogger, "Ev'ry pore."
Round the block he was now veering, then quite soon was reappearing,
Battered, scarred and bleeding in a state most people would deplore;
Ev'ry garment he was wearing now was either ripped or tearing;
Furthermore, his legs were bearing signs of toothmarks by the score;
"What on earth," I asked, "has caused these signs of toothmarks by the score?"
Quoth the Jogger, "Dogs galore."
Suddenly, it started raining, and I thought he'd be complaining
Of conditions unforeseen that Mother Nature had in store;
Drenched with rain, he soon was dripping, and sometimes he lost his gripping
Causing him to wind up slipping on the pavement bruised and sore;
"Give it up," I pleaded, as he lay there gasping, bruised and sore;
Quoth the Jogger, "Let it pour."
On and on, he did continue, straining ev'ry bone and sinew,
Round the block and back again until each passing was a bore;
"Hey," I asked him, "aren't you done now? Surely this can't be much fun now;
Fifteen miles or more you've run now since I've been here, keeping score:
Isn't that enough?" I uttered, as I stood there, keeping score;
Quoth the Jogger, "Just one more."
Then it was that I did see there just how old he seemed to be there;
Ancient was his weathered face with wrinkles I could not ignore;
Years of running so insanely made him look much older, plainly,
Than his age, which I felt mainly must be fifty-five or more;
"What's your age?" I asked, expecting he'd say fifty-five or more;
Quoth the Jogger, "Twenty-four."