The Gambling Preacher

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


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