Finalist in the poetry category, Mensa Canada 2016 Literary Contest
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
He never to himself hath said,
“I’ll put fifty on number three,”
Who won last year in Calgary,
But hasn’t won a damn thing since
Whose name when said would make you wince
Owned by a wealthy Arab prince
Who’d like to put him out to stud
Though realistically he should
Sell roasts and flank steak and horse mince
And pints of glue for little school men.
They’re at the post, they’re off and running
At the turn, number three is stunning
But one by one the others pass
And leave the Arab last, dead last.
Such man could keep his soul and purse
And prosper from money he disbursed;
His soul could yet have been kept warm
If he’d just read the racing form.