Hurl thy spear in hopeful arc, unfurl the disc of stone
Twirl the hammer of the Gods, ne’er Cannon shot be thrown
Leap yon sand pit for a lark, employ thy bendy pole
Lift above one’s body height, lithe frame in ‘Boston roll’

Hop and skip afore ye launch as far as thee may fly
Cross o’er hurdles one by one when passing by and by
Chase fixed steeple, ford wet trench, in measured gangling gait
Pass the baton on through life to seek what is thy fate

Walk or run yon distant path, Pheidippides did take
“Dash it all one hundred yards, a lap for goodness sake”