As though our dreams had the force of reality,
we concieved her & then when she appeared,
took her for our own.
We made her on massive proportions,
the body of a stud, the legs of a water spider,
so that no one would mistake her for ordinary.
And we made her black as the crack of doom.
We made her fast, speed on speed,
so fast that distance would lose all meaning
and time would take on a meaning anew.
We endowed her with savagery which would drive her to fight pain
and would humble her foes like serfs at the feet of a queen.
And then we gave her to a man above whom no other could be more trusted to minister her greatness & to preserve the sanctity of our dream.
She gave us power, because what we dreamt she performed,
so we asked for more.
Track record, stakes record.
Why not a world record, the consummate feat
which would prove us to be the supreme dreamers of all?
We approved when the track was tempered like an anvil,
a little help from man to fullfill her destiny.
Her speed, her unearthly physical size, our vanity
and finally her own savagery destroyed her.
We live now with a busted dream,
but the man in the pink shirt who made the lonesome trip
to the far side of Belmont's infield lives with the real loss.
We will dream again,
but Frank Whiteley will never hace another Ruffian!