An Ode To Pro-Team Cycling Staff

O cycling staff, how hard you work,
For some coddled prima-donna jerk,
Or kindly low-ranked domestique,
Too zonked from setting pace to speak,
Your constant efforts near unseen
While stars with stage-win jerseys preen.

You rub sore muscles, scrub their chamois,
You tuck them in their bedtime jammies,
You get them to and from the race,
and lug their crap from place to place,
And guide them, like to some foul mirage,
To Controle Anti-Dopage.

You lean outside of the team car,
A deader if you reach too far,
To patch up a leader's gross road rash,
Caused by some idiotic crash,
And as with fans they smirk and prance,
Stuff their drugs in your underpants.

You make them coffee, give them food,
You're placid if they're nice or rude,
You bear their misdirected rage,
When they're the chumps who blow the stage,
You get no praise, you get no dough,
When sponsors bail, you're first to go,
We fans owe you more than we know,
So thanks, y'all, on with the show!