What is it with running
That despite the pain
We still keep going?
They call us insane.
Our feet hit the pavement
Over and over again
But we do this for enjoyment
What makes us even begin?
I think it's the rush
The release of tension
Our stress and sorrow do flush
Down with our painful intention.
The cramps you feel
As though shot in the belly
Reminds us that this is real
One of the few things of many.
Our legs made of steal
Our lungs made of Iron
We can do this one thing
That others can't even imagine.
Life is short,
And we don't let it go to vain.
Running is a mental sport
And we're all insane.
