From now until Tuesday thousands of racing enthusiasts will spend a great deal of spare, and other, time in brain-racking attempts to sort out candidates and pick winners of the Melbourne Cup.
I've been watching them for weeks; And if anybody speaks Of a likely candidate, I test the truth Of every tip and claim. I am well up in the game, And I follow form and figures like a sleuth. I am fairly saturated In the hopes and fears debated By the seers and scribes who write the sporting notes. I've the favorite's every feat; Times, weight, distance all complete. And a black list, too, of all the hairy goats! Now then, this one has a chance; Certain winner at first glance. But, his weight! Well, THAT one carries ten pounds less. But the scribes, with strange insistence, Say he cannot do the distance. Well then, this one? Odds too short! Oh, what a mess. Ah! And what about this other? He has breeding, he's full brother To - but someone told me was overtrained. Hang it all! I was forgetting -- Here's the nag for my tote betting; Good long odds -- but wait -- I've heard his fetlock's strained. What about this fast outsider? Um! He's got a rotten rider. Well this? If he could beat THAT he might win. Or this! Or that might win it. But -- if -- isn't it the limit? Give it up! Has anybody got a pin?
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2002|