Not one start, or two,
But three before they're off,
Great consumer of tailcocks and vollies, pumping and pounding,
While Psybbo's fellow betters scoff,
Picking, gossiping, gawping,
As legs jostle and grind,
A sofa approaches, tension mounts, the crowd’s willpower booms,
Their steed, their bet in mind,
When one falls, a few betters slump,
Others look on with glee,
Their steed made it through, still in the race, a competitor,
‘There may be some Scottish Salmond notes for me.’
Another sofa,
Soon approaches,
Breath billowing, the steeds pant and sweat, their buckets consumed,
Forgotten are the people, they came in Daisy coaches,
To see, to witness,
This theatrical event,
With triumphs, tragedy, the suspense, which comes in bucket loads,
Their time, money, here spent,
Six or seven MoFCers gone
As they hurtle on still,
The thumps of knuckles, a cry rising up,
as more and more fall, but the winner?
The tortoise – or the hare?
Because you see, in this race,
Only a steed of both types will prevail,
To survive forty yards, relentless jumping and then still,
the final straw,
A full out sprint, faster than a gale,
Of wind whipping and battering,
The steed must be faster,
Than all others, of course, to beat, to win, to succeed,
A rasher dasher,
The final sprint,
They’ve come so far,
Faced adversity and succeeded where so many others have fallen,
A do, a ray, a Queenie and a laa,
Before the winner is chosen,
It was frustratingly close, at the end
The rider stays so Igor frozen, a hush....
and the result is announced,
To Nungate the triumph is lent,
And Tony, the fifty-plus grey,
On the former, the Edinburgh press do pounce,
‘How do you feel?’ they say, themselves, comically,
out of breath, a reply of thanks mumbled,
Before praise to Gin and Tonics is announced,
And the 'Tower's National' runners release a smug nay.