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Bernard de Silva
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« on: April 17, 2007, 09:01:06 AM » |
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The Moonshine Grey
Well the bush bunch had a racehorse,
a sway back, short winded grey.
Even less appealing, than old "Radish,"
the cartoon horse, from yesterday.
And most doubted, it was fully broken,
with a cruel mouth cast iron hard,
Totally wayward, so foul of disposition,
it sometimes wouldn’t budge a yard..
It would camp draft all other runners,
shouldering them along the rails.
Would drive hoofs into the attendants,
buck the wind, from jockey’s sails.
Seemed the only way to turn it mellow,
was raw moonshine, from the still.
Just fill the horse’s trough with buckets,
then let that beastie drink its fill.
Wild eyes would lose their raging fire,
though veins protruded cherry red.
Horse would stand about cross legged,
docile, too drunk to raise its head.
Track work, long before the dawning,
drag the grey mongrel out to train.
The hoop would ride the beastie sober,
then feed it moonshine, once again.
An odd training process oft’ repeated,
the horse kept mellow, in this way.
booze intake in the vicinity of barrels,
rivers of raw moonshine, every day.
So the bush bunch, held a discussion,
with all the top yobbos in the mob,
about the aspects of equine training,
and the devious ways to win a bob.
Agreed their grey horse was alcoholic,
it couldn’t function, without grog,
Said the yobbos, train it by rewarding,
the way you’d train a bloody dog,
And they noted at most the race tracks,
sponsor’s logos, near the finish line,
Were often huge pictures of their bottles,
of spirits, beer, and sparkling wine.
Then they pondered, and they haggled,
till those more brilliant, in the clan,
Brought forth a solution to the problem,
a simple formula , a ripper of a plan.
These signs would be the key inspiration,
the desired destination, for the horse.
They’d stand similar at his drink trough,
ten furlongs down a training course.
They would defer his morning’s drinking,
so his throat turned parched and dry.
Then parade full buckets there before him,
’til sights of moonshine caught his eye.
Then with the hoop and handlers holding,
they would drive off, down the way.
The horse’s vision frozen, eyes held captive,
focussed, on the grog in full display.
Eyes opening slowly wider, glowing redder,
watched it heading down the track.
All his body tensing, the muscles bunching,
while powerful yobbos held him back.
Then training barriers crashed, wide open,
those straining yobbos pushed instead.
The hoop swung the leather whip persuader,
crouched, then gave the grey his head.
Like a duck to water, or an eagle to its nest,
gone, swift as a cheetah in full flight.
Rushing, to be standing with head lowered,
guzzling all moonshine held in sight.
So where it saw the logos waving track side,
that drunken horse soon grew to know,
The faster it could gallop out race distance,
the more rewarding alcohol would flow.
Truly it had breeding, but no form to show,
even still a maiden, a total also ran..
The bargain purchase, a raging alcoholic,
was named "Prohibition", by the clan .
No trials or lead up races, for "Prohibition",
the first up plunge, their betting ploy.
"We’ll just slap it on, we’ll break the bookies"
confident, trainer down to stable boy.
They paid the nomination, a minor matter,
as the yobbos prepared to win the cup.
The horse, kept teetotal, stood almost sober,
watching, as they legged the jockey up.
His parched throat, burned like hell’s fires,
his eyes misted crimson in his head,
all attention focussed on the distant logos.
and that moonshine trough ahead.
Race records tumbled, the big horse flying,
a missile, rushed out at barrier rise.
Tore down the grassy track, unchallenged ,
toward disappointment, and surprise.
He flashed past the finish post, gaze lowered,
no trough of liquor caught his eye .
All his benevolence like a flash evaporated,
there stood the beast of days gone by.
He stood with ears laid back upon his head,
his bloodshot eyes all mean and hard.
Four feet splayed outwards gaining leverage,
"Prohibition", refused to move a yard .
A hush fell, those yobbos all stopped cheering,
for weight must be declared of course.
And stewards cannot weigh a hoop or saddle,
with both held to ransom, by the horse.
There’s a moral to the story, forget the yobbos,
plans of mice and men, oft’ go astray.
Pity that maiden horse, who’s barred forever,
the former alcoholic, ‘moonshine grey’.
[C.].Copyright: Bernard de Silva.
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