Wednesday, May 07, 2008

Poor Uncle Tom, Good Night

     For Eight Belles

     You heard the crowd sing "weep no more.."
     As you were led out to the green,
     Past columned stands, white and pristine,
     Into a narrow corridor.
     The gate was freed and off you tore--
     Your hot hooves galloped in the gleen;
     Your muscles moved your gray coat's sheen.
     When suddenly, amidst the roar
     From wide-brimmed hats, cocked from juleps;
     You, head bowed and back legs bent--
     A cool breeze swayed the tall, red tulips--
     Fell victim to establishment.  


Grognard Jeff said...

Some traditions are just made to be broken, like racing three year old horses.

Alicia Goranson said...

Just shy of three. Poor girl.