|from the collection Pathetic Poetry by Shakespeare
Swimming is a sport tis true,
That molds our habits old and new.
It is to our advantage, then,
To pick our coaches from good men;
And blight all those who blight themselves
by stealing jam from other's shelves.
This latter breed 's not hard to find,
And once you know, you'll spot his kind
By noting his uncommon sense
In skipping kids to coach parents.
Through them, he knows, ambition lies,
And sells himself in full disguise.
He'll plant a seed of trouble there--
With mock advice to show his care--
But when that seed takes root and grows,
He harvests other people's woes.
His jealous help brings harm not cures:
Your swimmer's faith breaks on his words.
And so our hollow-hearted coach,
On others' rights will now encroach.
Shun him! his ways, his phony din,
Build idols of faith, not of tin.
Or like he who follows the sun,
You'll wind up where you started from.
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