Stopped in the straight when the race was his own
Look at him cutting it—cur to the bone!
Ask ere the youngster be rated and chidden
What did he carry and how was he ridden?
May be they used him too much at the start.
May be Fate's weight-cloth are breaking his heart.
And some are sulky, while some will plunge.
(So ho! Steady! Stand still, you!)
Some you must gentle, and some you must lunge.
(There! There! Who wants to kill you?)
Some, there are losses in every trade,
Wreck their hearts ere bitted and made,
Will fight like fiends as the rope cuts hard,
And die dumb-mad in the breaking-yard.