The Races Poem by Ernestine Northover

The turf flies,
The fillies run,
My bet applies,
I did it for fun,
The thunderous sound,
They passed so fast,
The rumbling ground,
Is still at last,
The silence has come,
My ears adjust,
The voices hum,
My throat is trussed,
Did ours come first? ,
I hope she did,
Gosh, such a thirst,
Need to be rid,
How about a whisky.
Well done my pet,
She's a little frisky,
Now pet, don't fret,
There's the cup there
along with the rest,
Ah, here's the Mayor
With his chain on his chest.
The jockey's been weighed,
Our 'pride' is led,
The crowds they fade,
Slowly we tread,
The homeward way.
The racing's over,
A splendid day,
Where's the landrover,
Horsebox too,
Then lets retire
Join the queue,
Before I expire.
She'll win again
That's for sure,
Oh, here comes the rain
What a bore.
But still we won,
That's really good.
That's right, my son,
I knew she would.