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The Devil And Miss Jones

The threat of greatness gets us all the time,
It beckons to us in a simple rhyme:
Those fires could not be quenched at your behest,
Inside the furnace of your Olympic breast.

Four years you wheeled past all with shining spokes
At Rio Mesa and at Thousand Oaks;
A freshman star on track and field and court:
Miss Lady Tar Heels—dominant in all sport.

The West proclaimed a new star had arisen
When Sydney loomed upon the new horizon;
And backed by glorious red and white and blue,
The Nation turned its hopeful eyes to you.

When you so confidently the country told
Of your desire for 5 medals gold,
A media darling you became at once:
The U.S.A.’s most potent ordnance.

We watched you race on 52-inch screens,
Against your rival young, well-oiled machines;
But you stood out a cut above the rest:
A sculpted goddess on an epic quest.

Those rock-hard 6-pack abs and powerful thighs,
That hell-bent-for-gold focus in your eyes:
The signs were there, and though your victims tried,
Your date with Destiny would not be denied.

In victory when you shed those joyous tears,
The Nation soared and raised the roof with cheers;
And when you flashed that sweet, gap-toothed smile,
We fell in love with you all the while.

And even though your goal for none but gold
Was tainted by 2 discs of bronze—all told,
You were the story of those storied Games:
Until the day the story burst into flames.

Like Ate, goddess of lightness, you were fast:
And paired with winged Nike, who could outlast?
But all along the Feds were keeping tabs
Of what was cooked up in those BALCO labs.
Did science breach that sacred code of ethics?
Your body—was it more than good genetics?
The allegations hounded at your heels,
Intensifying your personal ordeals.

But you issued a strong and clear denial,
And we stood by you, as you stood on trial.
Our heroine would not a scapegoat be
For the bullies at the IOC.

But all the pressure somehow did you in
And forced you to confess that fatal sin:
That Sydney 2000 was all a lie;
And to the sport you loved— you said goodbye.

The podium on which you stood at night
(Flanked by the conquered on your left and right)
Draped proudly in that precious metal rare
No Mount of Victory was, but Hill of Error.

Like Zeus hurling Ate from Olympus Mount,
You fell from grace upon your stunning account;
You left the game broken and teary-eyed—
Golds forfeited, records disqualified.

And so your cover-up was all for not:
You lied about cheating—but you got caught.
Your legacy forever tainted by
The consequences of that tragic lie.

The threat of greatness gets us all the time,
It beckons to us in a simple rhyme;
He’ll tempt us with the view from mountain crest:
Until we fall, the Devil will not rest.

© 2007 Aaron Bayley