Punchestown
Twas the music took me there,
not the horses, funny that;
Bets and tunes in harmony interweaving,
busking like mad
the duelling whistlers
turned some heads
on ladies day.
Unlike Raifteirí we could
see our conceited audience
we played to the full
but tight pockets,
a crew that would make
Carolan himself cringe
or drive Dáibhí Ó Bruadair
into a rant
of satirical lampoon.
Hats, shades, zany dresses
and fake tan,
looking ridiculous being
the primary aim,
Tis a wonder the poor horses
didn't bolt with the sheer
fright of it all.
All these loopers
shouting and screaming
as they are being
whipped past the post,
one nutter shouts
Hit em, hit em, hit em! ! !
Poor 'Spot the Difference'
runs four and a half miles
at age fourteen
and wins admirably
to a rousing cheer and
'Moscow Flyer' comes out
of retirement at age thirteen
to placate the hungry masses
who fling their race cards
high into the air in celebration
as the noble servant
romps home in the last race
as the poor mouth bookies
reluctantly pay out
And twas funny that
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poem by Ciarán Kelly
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