Donkey Derby Poem by John Kelly

There are picnics and parties,
Families laze on the green,
Some dogs by the harbour,
Are causing a scene,
There are girls flashing smiles,
At boys with slick hair,
While hucksters are busy,
Peddling their wares.

There's newsagent Paddy,
With the widest of grins.
His shop overflowing,
Like a recycling bin,
Icecreams the best seller,
With ninety-nine flakes,
Topped off with red syrup,
Curled up like a snake.

It's the same in the Pier Head,
For the staff with the wings,
Taking flight from the kitchen,
With grub fit for a king,
There's Seánie and Gráinne,
In the bar pulling pints,
For Mullaghmore patrons,
Well into the night.

But the stars are the donkeys,
On this derby weekend,
Unaware of the fuss,
Amongst two-legged friends,
They stand to attention,
Next to boats in the bay,
While their owners prepare,
For a bumper payday.

Fortune tellers are busy,
Giving much sound advice,
While an old man in a van,
Sells hampsters and mice,
But they've one thing in common,
As they sit in the shade,
That's picking a winner,
In the pre-race parade,

Now the man with a red flag,
Is given the nod,
All bets have been placed,
At ridiculous odds,
Two evens-priced favourites,
In a six-runner field,
Wise punters cry foul,
At such insatiable greed.

Nervous jockeys are ready,
Anxious handlers are poised,
Sweat trickles down foreheads,
Tannoys blast out more noise,
The crowd are impatient,
Eyes peeled on the start,
Riders jostle their rivals,
Stewards keep them apart.

Excitement is mounting,
Some kids wear a frown,
Time to climb on dad's shoulders,
For the best view in town,
Then up goes a loud cheer,
As they charge from the stalls,
Followed quickly by gasps,
As number two takes a fall.

But his jockey soon rises,
His race has been run,
The only dent to his pride,
A red face and sore bum,
They're now nearing the finish,
Number five is in front,
Hats are thrown in the air,
As the field starts to bunch.

Will the judge be left red-faced,
It looks sure to be tight,
But from the back of the pack,
A late starter takes flight,
Without as much as a hee-haa,
He leaves them for dead,
His late effort rewarded,
By two necks and a head.

The crowd are ecstatic,
A local win is acclaimed,
Some blow-ins start heckling,
But they're not entertained,
And what was his secret,
The winning rider was asked,
Two acts of contrition,
At twelve o'clock mass!