"Do not be angry with him, Mr. Abigail. He has only a racing man's intelligence." - Judge Curlewis, in Sydney, referring to a rather dense witness.
Do you know Pete? Why, of course you do. There's hardly a feller, I don't care who, What don't know Pete in the racin' game. Intelligence? Why he is known to fame On every racecourse under the sun. A shrewd-'ead him, if ever there's one. A shrewd-'ead sure; an' a brain so quick He goes on thinkin' when he's 'arf shick! Yet there's been blokes who I've heard complain That racin' fellers ain't got no brain. Why, look, if I had a head like Pete Me ejicashin would be complete. Does a man need brains to get on a lurk To make a livin' without no work? Well, Pete don't work, an' he never did, But I've never known him short of a quid. Pete lives on the game; an' he lives reel good: Dresses an' feeds like a gen'leman should; Suit reel natty an' velour 'at. Striped pink collars, an' silk at that! But day an' night, wherever he is, He don't stop workin' that brain of his: Form, pufformance, an' age an' weight, Pete's on 'em all, an he's on to 'em straight. Straight from the stable, that's Pete's way; Right readied up to date on the day. Why, he carries the colors of every horse All in his head 'fore he gist to the course. An' there's never a meetin' but wot 'e gains. Yet there's coots wot argues 'e's got no brains, Fellers wot can't make 'arf of his dough. An' why? I'll tell yeh. They're too dead slow!
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003|