Pot Pourri

(11/5/2013)  Horsemeat in burgers - Poem - The Horse's Lament

  
THE HORSE’S LAMENT

As I lie here tonight in a cold supermarket store
And think of the night men broke down my door
And smuggled me off to a cold abbatoir
I lament how my dreams all turned out so sour.

You see, as a bay foal to this world I was born
On the plains of Kildare on a sweet August morn.
The people who saw me stood sorely amazed
As I stood with me mother under her loving gaze.

For, such a fine young prospect they never had seen
My fetlocks so sturdy, my coat sleek and sheen.
As I pranced round the paddock they all did agree
That one day I’d show all a proud pedigree.

So, they had their dreams that one day I’d be great
When soon they could see me jump fences and gates
And run like the wind with me tail in the air
Outstripping the pick of their stallions and mares.

And at night in me stable they played Christy’s Ride On
And there I’d be dreamin from dusk until dawn
Of races I’d run and purses I’d won
And of punters who’d bet me at 20 to 1.

Yes, I dreamed I’d been bought by the great Aga Khan
And trained by O’Brien on his Coolmore Stud farm
The great AP McCoy riding high in my saddle
And leave all contenders in me wake sore, bedraggled.

In the winners enclosure I could see meself stand
As proud as a peacock ‘mong folks great and grand
And them giving me sugar and patting me mane
And folks in the grandstand all singing my name

And, with me racing days over I dreamed, as I would,
That, sooner or later, I’d be put out to stud
Where I’d spend me last years without sorrow or pain
With some nice looking fillies on Kildare’s grassy plains.

Ah, but, all of my dreams were shattered and torn
The cold night men broke down my wee stable door.
And instead of great glories on the Curragh’s fair plain
I’m now part of what’s called a low-cost food chain.

Aye, instead of a Gold Cup, a Grand National win,
There’ll be bits of me lyin in an oul rubbish bin
Aye, instead of them working out my next handicap
My fate will be sealed in a big soggy bap.

Now, they tell me that I, the king of valley and plain
Am mixed up with oul bullocks that haven’t a brain
And sure, for all that we know, they don’t tell all the facts,
I might be part of a burger with a dog and a cat.

And one of the dreams that I cherished the most
Was to win the great Kentucky Derby where I’d be the toast
But now as on supermarket shelves now I lie
My fate is reduced to a cold Kentucky fry.

So, folks, if you’re eating a burger tonight
My ear, or much worse, could be your very next bite.
And, if from your burger a teardrop might fall
It’s only me saying ‘good night, God bless all’.