Today is ‘#JustWrite’ day, I’ve been told, so in the spirit of that, I decided to hand-write my poem of the stage. It was quite nice, actually. When I wrote ‘Froome’ too often, you can see I had to go back and cross it out. Anyway, I hope this is legible.
This was yesterday and it is authentic from when I fell asleep, so no grumbling about delays here.
You have to feel sorry for Peter Sagan,
Hung out to dry by a limited plan,
A loss that was caused not by speed but a man,
A nervous conclusion and ‘fin’
In the end what was left was the best of the break,
Who kept it all going with victory at stake,
And the peloton minutes behind in their wake,
They took the cake.
Its a couple of days late this one, but seeing as I’m only writing them for my own amusement really, I can forgive myself. This was Saturday’s stage – it was a slow burner for sure, but it exploded into life in the last forty-five minutes or so.
They put the monsters early,
They put the demons late,
They put the fear in everyone,
Embarking on Stage 8.
It looked as, at first, at least as though,
Redemption might come for Pinot,
He led across the Tourmalet,
His highlight of a sapping day.
With Majka and Martin in the break,
And mountain points the most at stake,
They found the leaders reeled them back,
By issuing their own attack.
And timing perfectly Chris Froome,
The lead across the summit,
Crouching, pedalling, speeding on,
A black, blue and white bullet.
The glory was his, the yellow was his,
The stage belonged to Sky,
Yet seconds only split the race,
Despite the battle cry.