My playmate’s walls doth shield things from the sun,
Kansas is far more flat, than her lid flat,
If snow be white, why then her inside’s dun:
Her lid peaked high, is nowhere that I’ve sat:
But ice therein melts not on sunny days,
Cold bottles she doth keep to cool my cheeks,
To give most sweet of all post-race solace,
That first cold drink, which cares not that one reeks.
And though she doth not speak, yet well I know,
That music hath no more a pleasing sound:
Than the clicking ere lid tips open so,
Presenting thus thirst quenchers all around.
And yet by heaven I feel such deep despair,
If her contents pre-race I don’t prepare.