When The Last Race Is The Most Rewarding Poem by Bryan Taplits

When we are young we race,
I confess,
We stretch and speed our best,
We are deft and young
and swiftness is our guide
As we fight to fly with our strides.
But it's so unfair as one gets old
That always is the race to the best,
Since our lungs no longer billow-
but wheeze with phlegm-
And when we race all we wish for
Is rest.
But if you wait long enough, you'll reap a boon
For no longer are you strong
so MUST! tarry,
Yes, you'll win at last,
(even though all your opponents have passed)
As you race, in your plod pace, towards the
Cemetery.