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.]
First published in the Herald, 2 November 1931
[Note: today is Melbourne Cup Day]
