One Friday morning, as the sun was rising through the mist,
I heard my daughter growling at the tack-box down below.
“Stuff this aggravation, and all this presentation, and
seven hours of cleaning gear for twenty minutes’ show.”

Later that morning heavy rain was falling steadily.
The dressage arena was a rectangle of mire.
Can’t see the markers, but follow the others’ ruts –
We’ll sacrifice impulsion if the accuracy’s higher.

On Saturday morning I’m still learning all the obstacles;
The head sadly thumping from the Friday evening’s gin.
Please do not tease me that daughter might leave me flat –
For if she does I’ll never know which obstacle I’m in.

On Saturday just at noon we start upon the marathon
We gallop through the watersplash in flying spray and spume.
Leaping to shore again, that’s when I lose a rein –
The stop watch – and the clip-board – and my navigator-groom.

So when I get to hazard three I start to play it recklessly
I stand no chance of winning if I just won’t have a bash.
I fly through the gates with Es before those with As and Bs;
And when I leave I have a steward hooked up on the dash.

The end comes in hazard eight –  we never make the exit gate.
We gallop round in circles as I try to work it out,
Arguing with my groom, run out of time and room,
And but for her I would have won, there isn’t any doubt.

I haven’t won at Sandringham, I haven’t won at Normanhurst,
I haven’t won at Catton – I am on a losing streak.
I’ve tried every gimmick, yet can’t win the red rosette.
If only I were sponsored, I could win one every week.