Around McGuffey's they were never wrong,
The old bastards, how well they understood
A horse's condition; how it can pull ahead
While the favourite drops lengths or draws wide in the mud
or just lopes stupidly behind;
How, when the gate crashes open into reverent hush
Any of them might be poised to run,
Trained in mud or on the flats.
They never forgot
That even the mangiest nag can steal a course
Anyhow chestnut in her stall, underneath a crown of burrs.

Reading Monday's Form, for instance: how everyone turned
Quite leisurely to their Special Bitters; Old Collin may
Have heard the bell, the jockey's cry,
But for him it was not an important start; the sun shone
As it had to through the sodden, flyspecked pane;
And the drunk outside who must have seen
Something amazing, a nag whipped within an inch of the sky,
Had money on the second race and walked calmly by.

(after Musee des Beaux Arts)