Peter Doyle is a Jogging freak,
He can be seen \'Near Death\' around Town twice a week;
For the straining of Lungs is the Healthiest thing;
To ensure you\'ll receive, a Card from the King.
He wears the best gear, the tightness of Shorts;
Leaves nothing to the Imagination by all Current Reports.
As that poor Maiden Aunt, the Retiring Miss Malt,
Who then had to be Revived, with much Smelling of Salt.
He Sweats a Monsoon through the Hours of the day;
For the Sensitive of Nose keep well out the way.
The most expensive of Shoes he wears for the Track;
Though his Wife walks around with Old Rags on her back.
A fancy new Watch that tells much of his Pace;
But the \'Tale of the Tape\' is writ large on his face.
He\'s cut off by the Music through the Buds in his Ears;
So Oblivious to the Cyclists and their Murderous jeers.
Now he pushes to hard for his fitness to peak;
Until he resembles an Ad for the Old and the Weak.
Then after his excursions he arrives at his home;
And a \'Call\' to old \'Ralph\' on the Porcelain Phone.
So if your out walking, keep a lookout for Pete;
He\'s the one breathing Hard;
Like a Grizzly \'On Heat\'.