Red Rum was pounding the turf down at Aintree,
Going as fast as any horse can be,
Ginger was there looking on at the side,
And the whole of Liverpool, filled up with pride.
For the third time now, this great horse had won,
The greatest steeplechase under the sun,
At Aintree a Horse is more likely to die,
For the third time Red Rum, the odds did defy.
Around the world the bookies all suffered,
The betting fraternity knew they weren't buffered,
To lay off a bet when the Horse is a hero,
Is not easy, so most, were left with a zero.
The ordinary punter, who fancied a flutter,
Even, the tramp, who lived life in the gutter,
Joined with the housewife who bet the housekeeping,
On the horse with the heart which always kept beating
Because they all knew Red Rum would win through.
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Comments about this poem (Red Rum by Damian Cranney )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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