In the Heart of the Betting Ring

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


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