It scares my luncheon's calm and dinner's.
It dogs my steps throughout the week,
That cursed crescendo of a shriek;
I cannot read, or write, or speak,
Undeafened by its howl unique,
That demon-yell of "Hall the Winners!"
I'm not, I own, a racing man;
I never loved a horse that ran,
And betting is a vice I ban;
Still, to the sporting caravan—