The Aintree Grand National

Folk get irrational
About the Grand National,
It makes the whole country go crazy.
We’ll urge on a horse
On that Liverpool course
Or berate him for being so lazy.
O’er Beechers they’ll crash
With a cut and a dash
And we’ll stand and we’ll scream at the blighters.
But why do I always
Pick three-leggéd donkeys
That have an old twinge of arthritis?

The hat comes around
And I feel duty bound
To pick out a horse’s name from it.
And when its inspected,
I find I’ve selected
A nag that’s called “Luminous Vomit.”
The boss picks a flyer,
A good, honest trier,
Oh why do the gods have to slight us?
And why do I always
Pick three-leggéd donkeys
That have an old twinge of arthritis?

The starting line’s raised,
And great trails are blazed,
With most of them set for a fall.
The air’s tight with tension,
But never a mention
Of “Luminous Vomit” at all.
The names are related,
I wait with breath bated,
I’m hopping around like St. Vitus.
Oh why do I always
Pick three-leggéd donkeys
That have an old twinge of arthritis?

The enclosure is filled
And the owner is thrilled,
And the bookies all smile with great cunning.
But there’s only one snag –
I can’t find my nag,
Is it fallen? Refused? Or still running?
How I long, how I long
That my horse will run strong!
Just once may it spur and delight us!
But why do I always
Pick three-leggéd donkeys
That have an old twinge of arthritis?