Fly away home: Michael Phelps soars again

He hits the wall and sees he's won.

If counting gold, that's 21.

No mere man, this barracuda -

More like Zeus, a god, a Buddha.

The big one was the butterfly.

No way he'd let this pass him by.

And so at last he has the prize,

The anthem plays, tears fill his eyes.

The hour's late, his work is done

And in the seats he spots his son,

Who one day no doubt will delight

On what his old man did this night.

But now, upon his mother's lap,

He'd surely much prefer to nap.