Shakespeare, Keats, and Wordsworth are turning in their graves…
October brings the autumn cold and drear;
The Spa, bereft, begins its winter nap,
Awaits July and the return of cheer,
Of those who come to wager, watch, and ‘cap.
And Belmont, home of champs, its storied ground
The host of Grade I winners, bids farewell
With state-bred runners; others, sunshine-bound,
For rest or racing, leave its empty shell.
To Aqueduct, then, we turn our racing eyes;
Manhattan Terrace, inner dirt, Cigar.
The subway, PP study time provides;
This Ozone Park desire some find bizarre.
There many moments we contently pass,
The hope of joy and fortune to amass.