Patriarch

The old trainer has won with lengths to spare
the Cup, the premiership and the breeder’s bonus:
bred the horse, bred the mare,
bred most of the owners
and the jockey too. Gave the girl her chance
and stuffed the handicappers.
With the three-kilo claim, led them a merry dance
in the last 200, went like the clappers.
He would like to thank nobody
in particular. Maybe the missus
for minding her own business and perhaps God
for making him hard but never vicious.
He is one of a kind in a small universe.
He’ll write his own elegy. He’d like to drive the hearse.