a christmas poem

It started on Tuesday, all stuffed from their dinner

The each-way thieves were on to a winner

Twisters grey horse was their number one guy

But he doesn’t go right, that Bristol de Mai

 

So on to the victor, the great rogue Might Bite

The Brits had a contender, to put up a fight

They’d win Gold for sure, at Cheltenham they reckoned

But wait! cried the hordes, Double Shuffle was second

 

And then came the Wednesday, would pain have no end?

The whip in the wrong hand, you dumbass Townend

While over at Kempton, with sales on at Zara

Head over heels, went Special Tiara

 

With Chepstow abandoned, the weather was dour

A grade one, for fucks sake, went to Whiskey Sour

Sharjah and Real Steel they fell with a dunt

Straight after the departure of the bauld Menghli Cunt

 

A new day it dawned, we thought ‘twould be great

But things only got worse, on the twenty eighth

It was getting quite spooky, almost paranormal

When Sizing John returned; clinically abnormal

 

Djakadam was just as bad, he gave up the gig

As did Yorkhill – the rogue, dog and pig

For Townend it got worse, he lost his companion

In front of the stands, oh poor Nichols Canyon

 

And on to the last day, it couldn’t get worse

When Monalee fell, this meeting is cursed

And then something happened, which shouldn’t be seen

The public embarrassment of the once great Faugheen

 

We’ll dissect and analyse, with much fanciful thought

Of low sun and bad rides and jockeys being bought

And all I will think of, throughout all the talk

Is what I will back under lights at Dundalk

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