We are the poorest players in the Sport of Kings
Not being able to eat will make a man mean
Lately I can't seem to keep myself from questioning
Is it worth the run through the mud just for one moment in the sun?
On these reclaimed floodplains and county fairgrounds
As the ambulance driver keeps chasing us around
For these poor old men who drive their pickups into town
Is it worth us tearing up our guts just for them to have a little fun?
I hate the fat men who own the ponies
And their fat hands that hold the cash
Fattened billfolds hold more than money
They possess the papers and the deeds: the victories of ancestry
But our blood is older than this country
And yours at least is far more pure
Together we may create beauty
Together we may achieve something that will endure
We were born and bred to run
We were raised and trained to run
We were paid and persuaded to run
Plus the drugs they push on us to thin our blood and make us run