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Flame Gun
It was fated, one payday, that I found a ten pound note.
Blowing down Palmerston street in the tail end of a gale,
And lunching on it, in the pub, a discarded Daily Mail.
There I read with bored disinterest that Anne, the Princess Royal,
Hoped to ride one "Flame Gun", in Olympic Montreal.
With good beer in my belly, I turned to view the form,
Where I read that the untried "Flame Gun",
Would race over sticks that afternoon.
Round Haydock Park, at half past one.
(An outing to prove fitness!)
And all that with odds of thirty five to one.
Well I started to ponder, to scratch my head and to wonder.
For it takes one to know one
And the Princess of course, is something of a horse!
On the strength of my hunch I forgot my lunch, and cashing my paycheque, I was flushed and hot.
Then I ran all the way to the bookies shop,
Beer swilling, legs unwilling and I bet the bloody lot.
Every penny I had, on the nose, and I payed the tax on top.
I never have liked bookies, they are always evil sods.
They took my bet quite cheerfully, but soon were cursing woefully.
For when the race was done, with a good novice field of thirty one,
Who were all left standing, from the start,
While Flame Gun raced alone and won!
(Ten lengths clear and with hardly a sweat on)
The Princess rode the Queen's "Goodwill" by the wide St Laurence River.
But I think that if she'd simply stuck, to her first choice mount,
She would have had more luck.
But she has my goodwill forever!
For I could never forget the best tipster ever!
Or the holiday in France and Spain,
With my girl and the brand new Yamaha.
