Ein Gedicht

THO                                                                                THOROUGHBREDS

                                                                      An original poem by Paul Mellon

 

 

 

The day my final race is run
And, win or lose, the sinking sun
Tells me it’s time to quit the track
And gracefully hang up my tack,
I’ll thank the Lord the life I’ve led
Was always near a Thoroughbred.

I’ve had my share of falls and knocks
Pursuing the elusive fox.
I’ve heard the stirring cry of hounds
From Melton to the Sussex Downs.
Each spring I ride a hundred miles
(My tail bright red, my face all smiles).

And I have seen the thrilling pace
Of many a cutthroat steeplechase
And watched with breath and mind
suspended
until a classic race has ended.
For those high days can end in pain,
Or in a bottle of champagne.

So if the downward course is steep
Where smoke and flames and devils leap
I’ll hope I’m on a hellish steed
Running his heart out with no need
For voice or spurs or flailing whip
To guarantee he gets the trip.

But if about the sixteenth pole
God should have mercy on my soul,
I hope He’ll raise me to the clouds
Above the grandstand and the crowds
And there I’ll take my ease, and wait
Behind the pearly starting gate.

And long before I break God’s bread
Or buy a halo for my head
Or sink into a starry bed
Or say the prayers I should have said
Before the donuts, rolls, or coffees,
I’ll find the secretary’s office.

In my first interview, of course,
I’ll ask St. Peter for a horse.
He’ll lead me down the heavenly sheds
Past miles and miles of Thoroughbreds
And say,”Since you’ve escaped Old Nick …
They’re on the house; just take your pick”.

So when old Gabriel’s golden horn
Echoes from cloud to cloud each morn
And “It is post time” rings out clear
I will be ready with my gear;
My horse and I will not be late
(Though I’ll be slightly overweight).

Then free from every mortal sin
(Including Butazolidin!)
We’ll gallop through celestial fields
Where neither mist nor mud conceals
The graceful movements of the horse,
The wide and green and endless course.

Though some may think and I’ll agree
That only God can make a tree,
Before God thought of trees, it’s said,
His mind was on the Thoroughbred.

 

Kommentar schreiben

Kommentare: 2
  • #1

    Sea Bird (Montag, 04 Oktober 2010 14:06)

    ↑ just gorgeous



    His breeding was impeccable, both parents winning races,
    a thoroughbred, a racehorse through and through,
    the trainer couldn't wait to put the young colt through its paces,
    at last the big day came - the horse turned two.

    The jockey had instructions, told to take it nice and steady,
    the owner had arrived to watch the run,
    the horse ran like a champion, the trainer said: "He's ready -
    he's faster than a bullet from a gun!"

    The big day at the race track came, the jockey couldn't ride him,
    he kicked a strapper, tried to bite the vet,
    the stewards saw him going off his head, disqualified him,
    the owner took him home with deep regret.

    The trainer said his temper needed mellowing and melding,
    some stallions hated noisy crowds, no doubt,
    tomorrow morning early he would make the horse a gelding,
    "There's two things there that we can live without!"

    He did the deed, a month went by, the horse was cured completely,
    he never even looked like playing up,
    a miracle had happened, now he seemed to act so sweetly,
    and next week was the Million-dollar Cup!

    Came race day, in the mounting yard, he acted like a treasure,
    paraded round so gentle and sedate,
    no sign of any tantrums and no inkling of displeasure,
    he cantered nicely to the starting gate.

    The owner was impressed, with now the calmest of demeanors,
    and record-breaking trial times, to boot,
    with giddy thoughts of taking all the bookies to the cleaners
    he went and bet a pocketful of loot.

    The gates sprang back, he jumped okay and started running quickly,
    then suddenly he stopped and stood there sad,
    the owner ran across the track and saw him looking sickly,
    he screamed: "You stupid racehorse - are you mad?"

    "You don't know what it's like," replied the horse in consternation,
    "I'm meant to be a thoroughbred, a toff,
    my first time out in public since I had the operation -
    and fifty thousand people shout: 'They're Off!'"

    by Graeme King

  • #2

    di (Montag, 04 Oktober 2010 16:14)

    vielen dank für diese trouvaille