In the heart of the betting ring
Stands a solitary bookie,
Peering from his towering stool.
No punter can escape from the
Sharp gaze of an oddsmaker who’s
Ready to take on the weight of
A nation. Pointing his cane at
The enemy, enticing the
Will of newcomers, all of the
Favourites are laid to the hilt.
He inhales a breath of wild air,
Takes fifteen grand on the jolly
And turns to face the running rails.
As the starter raises his flag
To the rippling roar of the crowd
The runners set out on their chase.
Gliding over the first half mile,
The front runners fight hoof to hoof,
Attacking each fence with aplomb.
The favourite, in the middle
Of the chasing pack, tracks the
Fast pace setters with ease; from the
Highest point down to the second
last, then in the lead at the three
Furlong pole. A cacophony
Greets the jolly as he charges
At the final fence, triumph awaits.
The fat bookie looks to the skies,
Pleading with The Almighty to
Grant His Mercy and pardon this
Sinner at the door. That little
Prayer from the sweating oaf turns to
A miracle; the jockey has
Unseated from his mount. ‘You’re a
Disgrace!’ proclaims a punter in
Wrathful fury, shaking his fist
And calling for the jockey’s head.
‘It was never in doubt,’ uttered
The bookie, cheering the winner,
‘Going down to the well once more?’
© 2017 AGP