Pete

Do you know Pete?  Why, of course you do.
There's hardly a feller, I don't care who,
   What don't know Pete in the racin' game.
   Intelligence?  Why he is known to fame
On every racecourse under the sun.
A shrewd-'ead him, if ever there's one.
   A shrewd-'ead sure; an' a brain so quick
   He goes on thinkin' when he's 'arf shick! 

Yet there's been blokes who I've heard complain
That racin' fellers ain't got no brain.
   Why, look, if I had a head like Pete
   Me ejicashin would be complete.
Does a man need brains to get on a lurk
To make a livin' without no work?
   Well, Pete don't work, an' he never did,
   But I've never known him short of a quid.

Pete lives on the game; an' he lives reel good:
Dresses an' feeds like a gen'leman should;
   Suit reel natty an' velour 'at.
   Striped pink collars, an' silk at that!
But day an' night, wherever he is,
He don't stop workin' that brain of his:
   Form, pufformance, an' age an' weight,
   Pete's on 'em all, an he's on to 'em straight.

Straight from the stable, that's Pete's way;
Right readied up to date on the day.
   Why, he carries the colors of every horse
   All in his head 'fore he gist to the course.
An' there's never a meetin' but wot 'e gains.
Yet there's coots wot argues 'e's got no brains,
   Fellers wot can't make 'arf of his dough.
   An' why?  I'll tell yeh.  They're too dead slow!