An Ode to Pat "Dick" McQuaid

O cycling world, how much you're fraught,
With thrills and glory, dope and rot,
And to it all is brought the eye,
of that great watchdog, UCI.
But no man really makes the grade,
Like our dear leader, Pat McQuaid.

You run the sport with iron hand,
Your name spreads fear throughout the land,
From bikes two ounces underweight,
To DSes you inanely hate.
And through it all your expertise,
Sez what can help Petacchi's wheeze,
Or just how much Clenbuterol,
Will set you up to take a fall.

You whine and scream when dopers cheat,
Except the ones you like this week,
Thus erasing any doubts,
You're hypocrite enabler louts.
You weren't poz? Tough noogies, sport--
We'll use the new bio passport
To say you're stoked, though we can't get
Valid goods on you just yet.
Never mind it looks real weak,
To peg some half-assed domestique,
Instead of catching bigger fry,
Whose legal team will make us cry.

You keep us on the moral path,
Afraid of all your random wrath,
While singing praises high and low,
Of those who give you lots of dough.
You kiss the rumps of guys like Lance,
Cringing like you'll wee your pants,
But lest we think you're just a whore,
Look! You're nailing Contador!

Race radios you want to ban,
For delectation of the fans,
In hope some poor sod's chain will glitch,
And send him flying in a ditch,
Because you know a rider's cries,
Send TV ratings to the skies,
And who cares if some nice domestique,
Busts his collarbone this week?

Teams say they want a whole new league,
Due to UCI fatigue,
But already enjoy the grace,
Of knowing they will never face,
Responsibility for pushing drugs,
Through their riders' IV plugs,
Nor their sponsors take the hit,
For approving that disgusting !@#$.
And with your help they're surely free,
Of uncomfortable publicity.

Now let us honestly report,
Of this noble, corrupt sport,
None would really watch a race,
At a dull and undoped pace,
So, Pat, to you we give our thanks,
O Patron Saint of Thieving Skanks!