Around and round and round the track we go.
I'm barely breathing. And you?
I'm huffin', puffin'; my lungs need some O.
Why did I go out for track? I was a fool.
Afraid I listened to some bad advice,
so now I pant and I wheeze.
I feel like jumping in a tub of ice;
my sinews sear, I’m limping, muscles start to seize.

Laps, laps, I thought I'd die:
I've found runnin's not for me.
Laps, laps—I’d rather lie
in bed and rest in reverie.

Moaning, oh, I’m moaning.

Don’t think I should be running, not today;
I am lacking in track verve.
I’m not a fleet thing; I merely sashay;
each time we reach a curve, I nearly lose my nerve.
I’m very sorry, but I’ve never led;
in fact, I amble real slow.
I keep on laggin’. . .like a weight that’s dead
draggin’ down a team that really longs to go.

Laps, laps, I start to cry;
I've found runnin's not for me
Laps, laps—I’d rather lie
in bed and not get up till 3:00.

Groaning, oh, I’m groaning.

Before I drop, I’d like to say one thing,
but I can barely breathe,
lungs in a vice. . .past the opponents fleeing;
as I start to hurl, the poor coach starts to seethe.
I’ve found I can’t get any joy at all
by stumbling while I retch:
it’s projectile and on a boy it falls
He winds up and slugs me and then starts to kvetch.

Slaps, slaps—he caught my eye—
they feel like nunchucks to me.
Slaps, slaps, then he sped by
We lost ignominiously.

Moanin’, coach, me moanin’. . . .