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
Reblogged this on Jessica Lamb and commented:
This bizarre week in prose, by the talented Stephen Cass.
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