By Jemma Cutting

The gates fly open to the mighty roar
Their fluid motion so strong and sure
Pounding down the straight the first time
Searching for the fence in a ragged line

Around the first turn, Sir Ivor takes the lead
The man next to me says with greed
“That’s it my lad, stay there you beaut!
You’re sure to win me lots of loot!”

Entering the back straight Sir Ivor still in front
“But here comes a move from the back!”
The announcer shouts and the greedy man grunts
“He’s nothing but a hack”

Highborn steers the field to the home turn
And my stomach begins to churn
Where’s the favourite, where’s ‘Old Jack’?
Perhaps he can’t win with all that weight upon his back

Two furlongs out I search the pack
For the colours red, white and black
Suddenly eight horses wide
I saw my champion begin to stride

Bit by bit he gathered them in
You could see his mighty will to win
The jockey’s whips began to crack
The crowd roared, “Here comes ‘Old Jack’!”

He hit the line and won the cup
With ten stone five and a bit of luck
Defeating a field of thirty-nine
What a champion, my beloved Carbine