The scene upon the frock-flecked lawn
   Is, as you please, a picture fair,
Or just a hunk of human brawn,
   With blobs of faces here and there.
Stilled are the clamors of the Ring;
   The famous race is on at last;
All eyes are on the lengthening string
   Of brilliant jackets moving fast.


Torn, trampled tickets mark the birth
   Of broken hopes all now would men,
As quickening hoof-beats spurn the earth,
   And the field thunders to the bend.
All men are equal for the nonce,
   Bound by an urgency intense,
And eager questionings win response
   From strangers tip-toe with suspense.


“What’s that in front?”  All faces yearn
   Toward the track in serried rows.
The field comes round the homeward turn,
   As, wave on wave, the murmuring grows,
Waxes and swells from out that host
   Till pandemonium begins,
And flecks of color pass the post
   To mighty cries of _____* wins.


[* N.B. – Write your own ticket.
- D.]

"Den"
Herald, 2 November 1931, p7