Possessed we are, like demons,

When we spring from the gate.

The yelling and cursing sets panic aflame;

This game we’ve grown to hate.

We run and race and push so hard

As noise erupts around.

Anywhere else we might be friends,

Here only rivalry is found.

Of our fate we cannot control;

The masters choose them instead.

Winners are praised until they get old,

Then their blood, too, is shed.

This horror, this terror,

They dare to call it a sport.

Yet we are the ones who pay the price,

We do as they exhort.

None among us remember,

Though we feel it in our bones;

We were once a free people,

Hooves pounding over stones.

Man has been the fall of us;

Freedom stolen without remorse.

Oh, what a terrible time it is

To be a racing horse.