The Race Poem by John I Nash

Nostrils flaring he dances and prances, mounted rider in all colors, the smell of leather he has no tether now!

To the gate he is brought, eyes blazing no gazing, a spring to be sprung, an arrow to be shot, a bullet to be fired this is his desire only to run.

The bell is rung and he is sprung, Pounding the earth into submission this is his mission.

Hard and fast he runs his heart hurting, no matter the weight he finds his gait.

All is right what a sight!

He is at his best, victory is all he will accept, and nothing less this is his quest.

Roses abound and he is found in the winners circle, A King in the sport of Kings.