A Day at the Track

Punters' Lingo in Motion

The gates clang open with a clamour of hope—

I'm in for a monkey, already "in the red,"

The dogs are barking it: some street-corner tip,

A stone bonker, or so every wise mug has said.

Bookies are calling—"price on the board I lay!"

Spot after spot slides from pocket to pen.

I'm doing plenty—got the arse out of my pants,

But I'm chasing the get out stakes again.

I took overs, then unders, I'm just about square,

My horse, a big drifter, blew like a north wind.

He must have lost a leg in the float on the way,

Stone motherless last—where do I begin?

The jockey went via the cape, then hailed a cab,

My "good thing" was sweating, in a muck lather—

It pulled its head off, a real duffer in the wet,

And dish lickers dash, but none seem to matter.

The board odds are flashing, the touts give a nod,

You're all on, cries the baggie, with hope not yet gone.

I backed it on the billy, off goes my head—

On goes a pumpkin as daylight drags on.

Put in, take out, it's a bank teller job,

Don't run upstairs, don't bet odds-on, they say.

Still, punting's a mug's game, but laughter and lore

Make legends of losers at the racetrack each day.

So here's to the tipsters, the blowers, the goats,

To the jockeys who ride with a prayer and a plan,

To the iron and luck, and the tales that endure—

On a day at the track, every punter's a fan.

Copyright© take2 august 2025