When I was young and thought I knew
In racing matters a thing or two,
I used to prowl where jockeys herd
And tipped them for a sure ” dead bird.”
They gave me tips when I tipped them
And they told me what would win at Flem—
At Flem—at Flem—
They put me on
To the winner of the Cup at Flemington.
I thought it the safest thing on earth,
I backed it then for all I was worth;
To get long odds I did it quick,
And fancied I had the bookies slick;
The odds they laid I gathered up,
But that “bird ” was ” dead” for the Melbourne Cup.
The Cup—the Cup,
The Melbourne Cup,
I with a will
Had sneaked the till-
When the race was run they took me up.
When I my eighteen months got through,
I felt that backing tips won’t do,
So I hit upon a happy scheme,
I thought of winners I would dream.
I dreamt, and backed them fair and square,
But my dream-horse was a night-mare.
Not worth a mag
Was such dream-nag,
So I turned up
The Melbourne Cup
And backing steeds Flemington.