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The Ballad of Hank the Gyp |
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by Bill Galvin |
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This is the song of Hank the Gyp as he rests in his shakedown bed,
In straw and hay, death-like he lay, a gunny sack pillowed his head.
'Twas a fearful plight on a winter's night, and this is what he said.
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| I'm one of the horsemen's brotherhood
And have been all my life,
I've sweated and toiled with the worst of stock
And never had a wife.
I've followed my dreams and tho' it seems,
Have had my share of loot,
'Twas the hard-earned bucks those doggies earned,
And I never cared a hoot. |
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Look at my crippled body,
Each bone in my frame's been broke.
Look at the mare in the stall next door,
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And look in my empty poke.
Look at this barren feedroom,
Look at the tack so worn,
Yet 'ere I ship to the Big Shedow,
Another horseman's born. |
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This racing is only a gamble,
The worst is as good as the best.
I rode with the tops of an era,
And should have come out like the rest.
With Loftus, McIver and Sande,
Oh God but it's awful to think,
The thousands of dollars I've squandered,
On gambling, women and drink. |
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Those days of the past weren't meant to last,
When we rode for ten per cent,
We parlayed hundreds to thousands,
And led the life of a gent.
Yet ask any man who remembers
And he'll bet you the best in his string,
That our sin was the strength of desire,
And we only desired to win.
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We were just like one big family
And lived as a breed apart,
A wild and reckless carefree life,
(That's how I got my start).
Money was just like dirt then,
Easy to get and to spend,
But we had the bug and a whisky jug
Got us in the end.
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Forty years on the racetrack,
Trying my best to keep
The rep that I made as a punker,
But ever I sink so deep.
Gyping about on the bull rings
In search of a pot of gold;
Forty years on the race track,
Forty years, and I'm old.
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Old and weak but no matter,
There's a spider left in the jug.
I'll hustle the jock's mount tomorrow
And ride a kid with the bug.
The ole mare'll win tomorrow,
Win by a country mile,
We'll bet a hundred across the board
To keep us for a while.
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| "Come Jock, the Judge said 'riders up',
Climb aboard and tie your knot,
Tuck her in 'till the quarter pole,
This big one means a lot.
Reach and clout her at the eighth pole,
Then fold up and hand ride a bit
And she'll whip these bums in the Handicap,
Or my name's not Hank the Gyp. |
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This was the song of Hank the Gyp as he lay in a shakedown bed.
In straw and hay, death-like he lay, a gunny sack pillowed his head.
The old mare nickered for breakfast oats, but Hank the Gyp was dead.
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Copyright © 2008 All rights reserved. The above article is the property of the Author and may not be duplicated or redistributed in any way without permission. |
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