Going to the Dogs
Come Friday night my father's public vice Was a greyhound track. He took me there twice. Most of his life his own sad way he went, So going to the dogs with me was different.
The electric hare, the eager racing hounds, Tic tacs in their white gloves, fistfuls of pounds. . The magic of that place and its event! Oh, to me going to the dogs was different.
To choose a trap my poor Dad bruised his wits Perusing form, and when that failed had fits Of asking me my fancies. What this meant For us made going to the dogs quite different.
Once the choice dog in the pre-race parade Excreted what looked like bad marmalade. `A sign,' my father said, 'from heaven sent! You do know going to the dogs is different?'
He'd urge his favourite home with passionate cries. The keenest still brings tears into my eyes: `Come on, my son!' It was an accident Which our dear going to the dogs made different.
I can't remember what my old man won; God knows he lost much more in the long run. His coat was shabby and his hat was bent, But going to the dogs I found him different.
I do recall my father shook my hand When our dog came in first. Now understand: Some of us gamble when our hearts are spent. My going to the dogs is not so different.
Robert Nye
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