The Martyrs
Think what you will of the racing man,
Say what you like as well,
Call him a "nut with a heavy foot,"
Crazed by the Speed Imps Spell.
Brand him as greedy for purse and fame,
Jest at his playlike toil –
Riding hell-bent in a roaring bowl,
Blackened with grime and oil.
Give him a cheer or scoff at his kind,
But when he leaves the track –
A broken thing 'mid a wreck of steel
To ride through vales of black –
Be square to him and just ask yourself
As fairly as you can;
"Would I give as much as he has spent
For the good of my fellow man?"
Remember, too, as you roll along
Security's Highway,
You owe a debt to this speed-mad fool,"
A debt you'll never pay.
For he's taken tires, bolts, and rods
To prove them false or true,
And his O.K. is your guaranty
That you'll ride safely through

D.C. Burton.

On the Eleventh hour,
Of the Eleventh day,
Of the Eleventh month,
When the guns, fell silent.