The Racing Man
by
A. P. Herbert
My gentle child, behold this horse -
A noble animal, of corse, but not to be relied on!
I wish he would not stand and snort;
Oh frankly, he is not the sort your father cares to ride on.
His head is tossing up and down,
And he has frightened half the town
by blowing in their faces,
And making gestures with his feet,
While now and then he stops to eat in inconvenient places.
He nearly murdered me today,
By trotting in the wildest way through half a mile of forest;
And now he treads upon the kerb,
Consuming some attractive herb, he borrowed from the florist.
I strike him roughly with my hand; He does not seem to understand;
He simply won't be bothered, To walk in peace, as I suggest,
A little way towards the West - He prances to the No'th'ard.
And yet, by popular repute, He is a mild, well-mannered brute,
And very well connected;
Alas, it is a painful fact,
That horses hardly ever act as anyone expected.
Yet there are men prepared to place,
a sum of money on a race,
in which a horse is running;
An animal as fierce as this, as full of idle prejudice,
And every bit as cunning;
And it is marvelous to me, That grown-up gentlemen can be,
So simple, so confiding;
I envy them, but, Oh my son,
I cannot think that they have done a great amount of riding!
