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Alix

The mare Alix breaks the world’s trotting record one day. I see her heels flash down the dust of an Illinois race track on a summer afternoon. I see the timekeepers put their heads together over stopwatches, and call to the grand stand a split second is clipped off the old world’s record and a new world’s record fixed.

I see the mare Alix led away by men in undershirts and streaked faces. Dripping Alix in foam of white on the harness and shafts. And the men in undershirts kiss her ears and rub her nose, and tie blankets on her, and take her away to have the sweat sponged.

I see the grand stand jammed with prairie people yelling themselves hoarse. Almost the grand stand and the crowd of thousands are one pair of legs and one voice standing up and yelling hurrah.

I see the driver of Alix and the owner smothered in a fury of handshakes, a mob of caresses. I see the wives of the driver and owner smothered in a crush of white summer dresses and parasols.

Hours later, at sundown, gray dew creeping on the sod and sheds, I see Alix again:
Dark, shining-velvet Alix,
Night-sky Alix in a gray blanket,
Led back and forth by a nigger.
Velvet and night-eyed Alix
With slim legs of steel.

And I want to rub my nose against the nose of the mare Alix.

poem by Carl Sandburg
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The Wife

Max Irons, Glenn Close, Christian Slater, Harry Lloyd, Jonathan Pryce, Carolin Stoltz, Alix Wilton Regan, Karin Franz Korlof, Annie Starke

by Jane Anderson from The Wife (2017)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Nose

No one cares for the nose

To go nose straight is the tao

If there were no eyes

You could see better with your nose

If there were no nose

you wouldnot distinguish the sweet from the bitter

And there would be no value judgements in the world

And it is the nose that keeps you hot in the cold

And that keeps you cold in Jakodabad

The nose is the vigilant customs officer

That does not allow any drug to your lungs

And the nose cannot be bribed

Oh Nose! the customs officer of the body

And the pivot of value judgement in the world

If that name thou love

Remain with us and teach the noseless world

That it must have a nose in this wartorn world

He who knows the greatness of nose

Surely goes to the realm of rose

In the life to come

Hurrah Let us compose hymns to nose

poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Asses

'I KNOW where I'd get
An ass that would do,
If I had the money
A pound or two.'

Said a ragged man
To my uncle one day;
He got the money
And went on his way.

And after that time
In market or fair
I'd look at the asses
That might be there.

And wonder what kind
Of an ass would do
For a ragged man
With a pound or two.

O the black and roan horses the street would fill,
Their manes and tails streaming, and they standing still,

And their owners, the men of estate, would be there,
Refusing gold guineas for a colt or a mare.

And one, maybe, riding up and down like a squire
So that buyers from Dublin might see and admire

The hunter or racer come to be sold
And be willing and ready to pay out their gold.

With men slouching beside them and buyers not near
It's no wonder the asses held down head and ear.

They had been sold or in by-ways bought
For a few half-crowns tied up in a knot,

And no one so poor as to buy one might come
To that fair that had horses so well prized at home!

And then it fell out
That at Arva or Scrabbey,
At some down-county fair,
Or Mohill or Abbey,

On two asses I happened
Without duress or dole
They were there in the market,
A dam and her foal.

And the owner, a woman,
Did not slouch or stand,
But in her cart sitting
Was as grand as the grand;

Like a queen out of Connacht
From her toe to her tip,
Like proud Crania Uaile
On the deck of her ship.

And her hair 'twas a mane:
The blackberries growing
Out of the hedge-rows
Have the sheen it was showing,

There kind was with kind
Like the flowers in the grasses
If the owner was fine,
As fine were her asses.

White, white was the mother
As a dusty white road;
Black on back and on shoulders
The cross-marking showed.

She was tall she could carry
A youth stout of limb,
Or bear down from her mountain
The bride decked for him!

Such was the mother
The foal's hide was brown,
All fleecy and curly,
And soft like bog-down;

And it nuzzled its mother,
Its head to her knee,
And blue were its eyes
Like the pools of the sea!

Then I thought all the silver
My uncle could draw
Might not pay for the creatures
That that day I saw;

And I thought that old Damer,
Who had troughs made of gold,
Could not pay for the asses,
The young and the old.

And I think of them still
When I see on the roads
Asses unyoked,
And asses with loads;

One running and trotting,
With harness loose,
And a man striking and hitting
Where his stick has use;

And one with a hide
Like a patched-on sack
And two creels of turf
Upon its back;

And one in the market,
Meek and brown,
Its head to the cart-shafts
That are down;

Eating its forage
A wisp of hay;
In the dust of the highway
Munching away;

Unmarked in the market
As might be a mouse
Behind a low stool
In a quiet house

Then I think of the pair
Horses might not surpass
The dam and her foal,
The white ass and brown ass.

poem by Padraic Colum
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Moving Pictures

Last night I saw a movie
And I thought about many movies Ive seen at your house
Excuse me if Im rude
But Id rather that we just strike from the record ones Id see again without you
Leaning on my shoulder
Distracting me from the plotline
Where can I go when I want you around
But I cant stand to be around you
Go home
Ill walk myself to you
Ill walk myself away from here
Go to hell is all I thought for seven weeks
But I grew out of that phase looking at these broken photographs of people
Looking glossed just like a summer ago
Where can I go when I want you around
But I cant stand to be around you
Go home
Ill walk myself to you
Ill walk myself away from here
Call me back Im pleading with a cork in my head
It wouldnt be the first time
My pillow has been mistaken
Where can I go when I want you around
But I cant stand to be around you
Go home
Ill walk myself to you
Ill walk myself away from here
Cant stand to be around you
Around you, around you
Cant stand to be around you
Cant stand, I cant stand
To be around you
Around you
Around you
Around you
Around you...

song performed by by Fall Out Boy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On A Winter Afternoon

A gray mare standing beside
The snow covered wooden fence.
The fence along a country road
Icy and well traveled.

Cars and trucks passing by;
Few noticing the gray mare
Breathing hot fog
From her nostrils.

The gray mare noticing all
Passing by, the wind in her hair,
Ruffling her mane. Patiently,
Standing by the snow covered
Wooden gate.

Awaiting her masters return
From work to bring her safely
Across the country road
To her home, the red barn,
And a meal of winter hay.

poem by Joe Wocoski
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Kung

What you are now experiencing is
the Vibration of Life ladies and gentlemen
Your head may be feeling heavy
Seven beats per second
Your nose light
This will re-energize you
Your eyes heavyYour nose light
Your eyes heavy
Kung...
Kung...
Kung...
Your eyes may be feeling heavy
Your nose lightYour eyes heavy
Kung...
Kung...
Kung...
Rich in minerals
Rich in firth Carry well ye martin lad
Fervent fourth
Now Fervent fifth
Forever arealm we cry
Be it ever so Voraciously alternate
We call upon your pulse
Can we stand?
Can we stare?
We can stage a runaway golfcart marathon!
Stand up
Stand up
Stand up on your heels and call
From the hills
From the hills
This may have made your eyes feel heavyY
our nose light
Your eyes heavy

song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dyes Cast

Each night
As he drops his head
To the deep dream
Of the dark bed,
A shape beckons him
Wellaway
From the starlight
And the dim day.

A mare
Black as a spade, calls
From the dark hill
As the wind falls,
The reeds mutter
The night is black
As he leaps blind
To the mare’s back.

Then like the roar
Of an ill wind
Or a black flame
From the devil’s kiln,
The mare speeds
To the night’s work
By the old mill
And the dark Kirk.

Shapes flutter
And leap alight
Before they sputter
And, out of sight
Disport and mutter
Of black arts
To see the mare
And the rider pass.

Hour on hour
He clings to scenes
Of dark images,
Wild dreams
And chance friends
From the dead past
In the grim haunts
Of dyes cast.

His face burns
And tears stream
In the long night
Of the dark dream,
He clings grim
To the mare’s back
For his soul’s sake
And a long lack.

The day brinks
At night’s mist;
‘There may be nothing
More than this, ’
The mare fades
From his wide eyes –
But the thoughts bide,
And the old lies.

‘There may be nothing
More than this! ’
And his mind seeks
The mare, the mist;
‘There may be nought
But the dead past,
And the dark haunts
Of dyes cast.’

27 December 1978

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Mulligan's Mare

Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place
To drink, and to fight, and to gamble and race;
The height of choice spirits from near and from far
Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar.

There was "Jerry the Swell", and the jockey-boy Ned,
"Dog-bite-me" -- so called from the shape of his head --
And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang,
Designated the "Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang".

Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show,
A bad un to look at, a good un to go;
Whenever they backed her you safely might swear
She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare.

But Mulligan, having some radical views,
Neglected his business and got on the booze;
He took up with runners -- a treacherous troop --
Who gave him away, and he "fell in the soup".

And so it turned out on a fine summer day,
A bailiff turned up with a writ of "fi. fa.";
He walked to the bar with a manner serene,
"I levy," said he, "in the name of the Queen."

Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law,
To pay out the bailiff with "one on the jaw";
He drew out to hit him; but ere you could wink,
He changed his intention and stood him a drink.

A great consultation there straightway befell
'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell,
And the man with the head, who remarked "Why, you bet!
Dog-bite-me!" said he, "but we'll diddle 'em yet.

"We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack,
And put in her place the old broken-down hack;
The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear
The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare.

"So out with the racer and in with the screw,
We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do;
And if he gets nasty and dares to say much,
I'll knock him as stiff as my grandfather's crutch."

Then off to the town went the mare and the lad;
The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was "had";
But marched to the stall with a confident air --
"I levy," said he, "upon Mulligan's mare."

He watched her by day and he watched her by night,
She was never an instant let out of his sight,
For races were coming away in the West
And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best.

"Here's a slant," thought the bailiff, "to serve my own ends,
I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends:
'Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare
And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare.'"

The races came round, and the crowd on the course
Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse,
And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense,
They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence.

But think of the grief of the bookmaking host
At the sound of the summons to go to the post --
For down to the start with her thoroughbred air
As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare!

They started, and off went the boy to the front,
He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt;
He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled,
Then gave her her head -- and she smothered the field.

The race put her owner right clear of his debts;
He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets,
He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf,
And gave him a hiding to keep for himself.

So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray,
Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay;
For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week
Is never to bet on a thing that can speak.

And whether you're lucky or whether you lose,
Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze,
And fortune in season will answer your prayer
And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Dat Ol' Mare O' Mine

Want to trade me, do you, mistah? Oh, well, now, I reckon not,
W'y you could n't buy my Sukey fu' a thousan' on de spot.
Dat ol' mare o' mine?
Yes, huh coat ah long an' shaggy, an' she ain't no shakes to see;
Dat's a ring-bone, yes, you right, suh, an' she got a on'ry knee,
But dey ain't no use in talkin', she de only hoss fu' me,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.

Co'se, I knows dat Suke 's contra'y, an' she moughty ap' to vex;
But you got to mek erlowance fu' de nature of huh sex;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Ef you pull her on de lef han'; she plum 'termined to go right,
A cannon could n't skeer huh, but she boun' to tek a fright
At a piece o' common paper, or anyt'ing whut's white,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.

Wen my eyes commence to fail me, dough, I trus'es to huh sight,
An' she 'll tote me safe an' hones' on de ve'y da'kes' night,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Ef I whup huh, she jes' switch huh tail, an' settle to a walk,
Ef I whup huh mo', she shek huh haid, an' lak ez not, she balk.
But huh sense ain't no ways lackin', she do evah t'ing but talk,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.

But she gentle ez a lady w'en she know huh beau kin see.
An' she sholy got mo' gumption any day den you or me,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
She's a leetle slow a-goin,' an' she moughty ha'd to sta't,
But we 's gittin' ol' togathah, an' she 's closah to my hea't,
An' I does n't reckon, mistah, dat she 'd sca'cely keer to pa't;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.

W'y I knows de time dat cidah 's kin' o' muddled up my haid,
Ef it had n't been fu' Sukey hyeah, I reckon I 'd been daid;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
But she got me in de middle o' de road an' tuk me home,
An' she would n't let me wandah, ner she would n't let me roam,
Dat's de kin' o' hoss to tie to w'en you 's seed de cidah's foam,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.

You kin talk erbout yo' heaven, you kin talk erbout yo' hell,
Dey is people, dey is hosses, den dey's cattle, den dey's--well--
Dat ol' mare o' mine;
She de beatenes' t'ing dat evah struck de medders o' de town,
An' aldough huh haid ain't fittin' fu' to waih no golden crown,
D' ain't a blessed way fu' Petah fu' to tu'n my Sukey down,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Chequered Flag

The the disc brakes drag, the chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slick track. the young man's home; dry as a bone. his helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back. one lap victory roll. gladiat
Ul. the taker of the day in winning has to say, isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive. the sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks, touches the old man where he sleeps. th
Se brings up a cup of tea --- two biscuits and the morning paper mystery. the hard road's end, the white god's-send is nearer everyday, in dying the old man says, isn't it grand to be playing to
Stand, dead or alive. the still-born child can't feel the rain as the chequered flag falls once again. the deaf composer completes his final score. he'll never hear the sweet encore. the chequer
Ag, the bull's red rag, the lemming-hearted hordes running ever faster to the shore singing, isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winnie

When I went by the meadow gate
The chestnut mare would trot to meet me,
And as her coming I would wait,
She'd whinney high as if to greet me.
And I would kiss her silky nose,
And stroke her neck until it glistened,
And speak soft words: I don't suppose
She understand - but how she listened!

Then in the war-net I was caught,
Returning three black winters older;
And when the little mare I sought
The farmer told me he had sold her.
And so time passed - when in the street
One day I heard a plaintive whinney
That roused a recollection sweet,
So then I turned and there was Winnie.

I vow she knew me, mooning there.
She raised her nose for me to fondle,
And though I'd lost an arm I'll swear
She kissed the empty sleeve a-dangle.
But oh it cut me to the heart,
Though I was awful glad to meet her,
For lo! she dragged a tinker's cart
And stumbled weakly as he beat her.

Just skin and bone, a sorry hack!
Say, fellow, you may think it funny:

I made a deal and bought her back,

Though it took all my bonus money.
And she'll be in the meadow there,
As long as I have dough for spending . . .
Gee! I'll take care of that old mare -
"Sweetheart! you'll have a happy ending."

poem by Robert William Service
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Barbie Doll

This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.

In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.

poem by Marge Piercy
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Shades Of Gray (Master Backing Track Take 98)

When the world and I were young, just yesterday
Life was such a simple game a child could play
It was easy then to tell right from wrong
Easy then to tell weak from strong
When a man should stand and fight
Or just go along
But today, there is no day or night
Today, there is no dark or light
Today, there is no black or white
Only shades of gray
I remember when the answer seemed so clear
We had never lived with doubt, or tasted fear
It was easy then to tell truth from lies
Selling out from compromise
Who to love and who to hate
The foolish from the wise
But today, there is no day or night
Today, there is no dark or light
Today, there is no black or white
Only shades of gray
It was easy then to know what was fair
When to keep and when to share
How much to protect your heart
And how much to care
But today, there is no day or night
Today, there is no dark or light
Today, there is no black or white
Only shades of gray
Only shades of gray

song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shades Of Gray

By barry mann and cyntha weil
When the world and I were young,
Just yesterday.
Live was such a simple game,
A child could play.
It was easy then to tell right from wrong.
Easy then to tell weak from strong.
When a man should stand and fight,
Or just go along.
But today there is no day or night
Today there is no dark or light.
Today there is no black or white,
Only shades of gray.
I remember when the answers seemed so clear
We had never lived with doubt or tasted fear.
It was easy then to tell truth from lies
Selling out from compromise
Who to love and who to hate,
The foolish from the wise.
But today there is no day or night
Today there is no dark or light.
Today there is no black or white,
Only shades of gray.
[instumental interlude]
It was easy then to know what was fair
When to keep and when to share.
How much to protect your heart
And how much to care.
But today there is no day or night
Today there is no dark or light.
Today there is no black or white,
Only shades of gray.
Only shades of gray.

song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tom's Little Dog

Tom told his dog called Tim to beg,
And up at once he sat,
His two clear amber eyes fixed fast,
His haunches on his mat.Tom poised a lump of sugar on
His nose; then, "Trust!" says he;
Stiff as a guardsman sat his Tim;
Never a hair stirred he.

"Paid for!" says Tom; and in a trice
Up jerked that moist black nose;
A snap of teeth, a crunch, a munch,
And down the sugar goes!

poem by Walter de la Mare
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The Chequered Flag (Dead Or Alive)

The the disc brakes drag, the chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slick track. the young mans home; dry as a bone. his helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back. one lap victory roll. gladiat
Ul. the taker of the day in winning has to say, isnt it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive. the sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks, touches the old man where he sleeps. th
Se brings up a cup of tea --- two biscuits and the morning paper mystery. the hard roads end, the white gods-send is nearer everyday, in dying the old man says, isnt it grand to be playing to
Stand, dead or alive. the still-born child cant feel the rain as the chequered flag falls once again. the deaf composer completes his final score. hell never hear the sweet encore. the chequer
Ag, the bulls red rag, the lemming-hearted hordes running ever faster to the shore singing, isnt it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Night Stand

All night stand,
Been around seen a thousand places.
All night stand,
Seen a good half a million faces.
Because Ive lived this life,
And I made it for myself.
If you scandalize my name,
Then you scandalize yourself.
Because Im not to blame,
For the things that Ive been doing.
You all say that Im bad,
And Ill only end in ruin.
All night stand,
With a different girl each night.
All night stand,
With two hundred miles to ride.
But I wont give it up,
As long as I can make the bread.
When I do, I shall stop,
Close my eyes and go to bed.
And forget all this night[? ],
And all the people on my back.
Once Im free from these chains,
I aint never looking back.
All night stand,
Been around seen a million faces, yeah.
All night stand,
Seen a good half a million places, yeah.
All night stand,
Cant get these people off my back.
All night stand,
Ten percent for this and that.
All night stand,
All night stand.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Long Grey Mare

Written by peter green.
Ive got a long grey mare, she wont let me ride
I got a long grey mare, she wont let me ride
She makes me brush her in the morning
And put her to bed every night
Long grey mare, why cant we be just like before
Long grey mare, why cant we be just like before
We used to ride so hard
Until we just couldnt ride no more
Break:
Look at me grey mare, dont I feed you everyday
Look at me grey mare, dont I feed you everyday
But when I dig you with my spurs
You turn around the other way

song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How The Favourite Beat Us

"Aye," said the boozer, "I tell you it's true, sir,
I once was a punter with plenty of pelf,
But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the story
How I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself.
"'Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her,
But found she was favourite all of a rush,
The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on,
And several bookies were killed in the crush.

"It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter;
They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep.
The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner,
He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep.

"We knew Salamander was slow as a gander,
The mare could have beat him the length of the straight,
And old Manumission was out of condition,
And most of the others were running off weight.

"No doubt someone 'blew it', for everyone knew it,
The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite,
'If I can't get a copper, by Jingo, I'll stop her,
Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.'

"I said to the jockey, 'Now, listen, my cocky,
You watch as you're cantering down by the stand,
I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office,
You're only to win if I lift up my hand.'

"I then tried to back her -- 'What price is the Cracker?'
'Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear;
My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up
I bet every shilling against my own mare.

"I strolled to the gateway, the mare, in the straight way
Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground,
The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter,
When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around.

"They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em,
They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt,
But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past,
I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out.

"I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted
Away to the front when the flag was let fall,
For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her --
She finished a furlong in front of them all.

"You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for
The moment he weighed and came out of the stand --
"Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute."
"Lord love yer," said he, "why, you lifted your hand."

`'Twas true, by St Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter'
Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown,
And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses
To win when you're able, and keep your hands down."

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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How Salvator Won

The gate was thrown open, I rode out alone,
More proud than a monarch who sits on a throne.
I am but a jockey, yet shout upon shout
Went up from the people who watched me ride out;
And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd,
Were as earnest as those to which monarch e'er bowed.

My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain
As I patted my Salvator's soft silken mane;
And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand
As we passed by the multitude down to the stand.

The great waves of cheering came billowing back,
As the hoofs of brave Tenny rang swift down the track;
And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle,
Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle
That waited us there on the smooth, shining course.
My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse,
As a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight-
Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright,-
Stood taking the plaudits as only his due,
And nothing at all unexpected or new.

And then, there before us the bright flag is spread,
There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead;
At the sound of the voices that shouted 'a go!'
He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow.
I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie's great son-
He is off like a rocket, the race is begun.
Half-way down the furlong, their heads are together,
Scarce room 'twixt their noses to wedge in a feather;
Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife,
Ah, Salvator, boy! 'tis the race of your life.
I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge,
I feel him go out with a leap and a surge;
I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride,
While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside.
We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is past-
'Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast.
The distance elongates, still Tenny sweeps on,
As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn;
His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained-
A noble opponent, well born and well trained.
I glanced o'er my shoulder, ha! Tenny, the cost
Of that one second's flagging, will be-the race lost.
One second's weak yielding of courage and strength,
And the daylight between us has doubled its length.

The first mile is covered, the race is mine-no!
For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow.
He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun,
And the two lengths between us are shortened to one.
My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump,
For Tenny's long neck is at Salvator's rump;
And now with new courage, grown bolder and bolder,
I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder.
With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed;
I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed!
Oh, Salvator! Salvator! list to my calls,
For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls.
There's a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm,
As close to my saddle leaps Tenny's great form,
One more mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand,
I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand.
We are under the string now-the great race is done,
And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won!
Cheer, hoar-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say
'Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day!
Though ye live twice the space that's allotted to men
Ye never will see such a grand race again.
Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf
For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf!
He has broken the record of thirteen long years;
He has won the first place in a vast line of peers.
'Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race,
And even his enemies grant him his place.
Down into the dust let old records be hurled,
And hang out 2.05 in the gaze of the world.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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