FLUTTER

I fancied at day at the races,
Up at York, on the old Knavesmire track.
So I set off one Saturday morning
With this cert I intended to back.
I was told that it had been trained for this race
There was no way that it could be beat.
It crawled up the course about five miles an hour
It appeared to have rockers instead of feet.
The jockey was urging it forward
But it couldn’t get into top gear.
When half an hour later it walked past the post
My bookie gave out a loud cheer.
Cos his satchel was brimming with money
And he had a smug look on his face.
As for me I swore blind I would not bet again
Well at least not until the next race.
And for this one I chose an outsider
It was only a betting mans hunch.
When the stalls opened up it fell on its knees
And a furlong from home stopped for lunch.
That ended my day at the races
Losing money fast made me finally decide.
That the only time I’d follow horses again
Was for the stuff that comes out of their backsides.

By
Alfred Weston
© Copyright Reserved 2003

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