A poem by Jonathan Portman

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The sight of thoroughbreds strong
Still excites the mind and the eye
The need remains to look for all things wrong
As each fine beast comes galloping by.

The early morning shout for grub
And the friendly greet of every one
Still starts the day and resparks the bug
That is to plan and get each race won.

How now can I look at these wonderful steeds
Without a purpose or some cunning intent
And tell them their owners have no current needs
For the giving of their hundred percent.