I fear that the God of Gambling
Was forsaken by former folk,
Some of us are lost forever
To the wicked trade of our foes.
That ignoble race of bookies
Exist solely to steal our dough
And flourish on the other side,
We must bankrupt to the last man
In a final crusade against
Those smug heathens fallen from grace.
Every year we get oh so close
To a decisive victory
In March when our brethren descend
Through the Cotswolds, over Cleeve Hill.
As pious pilgrims bearing swords
Swearing allegiance to the Lord,
As troops dressed in gilets and tweed
Armed with cash up both of our sleeves,
We wage battles on all four days
At the sacred Cheltenham Racecourse.
Willie Mullins and Ruby Walsh
Are living saints right by our side,
Taking Grade One contests worldwide,
But the Irish are not enough
In the quest for a massacre
Throughout many betting jungles.
By the time the Grand National
Is run, the rebirth is complete,
Bookies’ bodies resurrected
By blood from once a year punters,
Those who profess no faith at all
And those only when it suits them.
Many gamblers are hypnotised
By tic-tac signs of favourites
Distracting from each way value,
A trick from the adversary
Trying to steal their souls away.
So please join me in silent prayer
And hope, by God, they can be saved
And turn once more to the form book.
© 2017 AGP