"Do not be angry with him, Mr. Abigail. He has only a racing man's intelligence." - Judge Curlewis, in Sydney, referring to a rather dense witness.

Do you know Pete?  Why, of course you do.
There's hardly a feller, I don't care who,
   What don't know Pete in the racin' game.
   Intelligence?  Why he is known to fame
On every racecourse under the sun.
A shrewd-'ead him, if ever there's one.
   A shrewd-'ead sure; an' a brain so quick
   He goes on thinkin' when he's 'arf shick! 

Yet there's been blokes who I've heard complain
That racin' fellers ain't got no brain.
   Why, look, if I had a head like Pete
   Me ejicashin would be complete.
Does a man need brains to get on a lurk
To make a livin' without no work?
   Well, Pete don't work, an' he never did,
   But I've never known him short of a quid.

Pete lives on the game; an' he lives reel good:
Dresses an' feeds like a gen'leman should;
   Suit reel natty an' velour 'at.
   Striped pink collars, an' silk at that!
But day an' night, wherever he is,
He don't stop workin' that brain of his:
   Form, pufformance, an' age an' weight,
   Pete's on 'em all, an he's on to 'em straight.

Straight from the stable, that's Pete's way;
Right readied up to date on the day.
   Why, he carries the colors of every horse
   All in his head 'fore he gist to the course.
An' there's never a meetin' but wot 'e gains.
Yet there's coots wot argues 'e's got no brains,
   Fellers wot can't make 'arf of his dough.
   An' why?  I'll tell yeh.  They're too dead slow!

"Den"
Herald, 23 August 1929, p6