Mahe Drysdale wins gold in rowing…just.
Stroke Of Luck.
In rowing terms, he’s mighty old
But Mahes still going to go for gold,
And as he cruised to the lead at the start
The only silver he cherished sat above his heart.
Out in first place at the start
The race looked a paddle in the water park,
True, one Croation still grimly clung to his wake;
Who knew that pesky paddler would be so hard to shake?
Mahes lead grew ever shorter
As that Croat flew o’er the water,
Mahe was mortified to see it diminish,
Would he be caught, short of the finish?
Oh so close to the wind he had sailed
But a photo proved that he had prevailed,
But his medal could’ve been quickly tarnished
Had his crafts bow not been so thickly varnished.