While The Billy BoilsSearchThe tea-bell tinkles on the evening air,The smells of soup and steak and eggs arise;The punter flops into his usual chairAnd imprecates his luck and someone’s eyes.’Tis Saturday and half the sporting mobHave left before the last race clears the course,And those amongst the heads who’ve saved a bobDiscuss the hopes and handicaps of Horse.Horse is the A and Z of all their lives,And as their keen fangs punish their repast,They ask each laggard sportsman who arrives —“Wot won the larst?”
“Wot won the larst?” The living world stands still,The social sun and stars fall in their flight;The hash-house waitress, clobbered up to kill,Gets scarce an answer to her sweet “Good-night.”The punter pauses with his mouth agape,A dozen peas well balanced on his knife,As it some name his destinies will shape,Some finish mean a rich, luxurious life.But no one round the room has heard the newsAt which a multitude will stand aghast,And no one answers o’er the strengthy stews —“Wot won the larst?”
The soup has disappeared and entrees comeLike shooting stars that meteors precede;And joints give way to puddings plain and plumAnd other dishes in a deiner feed.Even the winsome waitress cannot coaxA smile from palpitating punters whoAt other times are known as “bonzer blokes,”Who shout her to the pitchers or the Zoo,He’s missed his laundry and his usual shave,All thoughts of women to the winds are cast;His soul is centred on that issue grave —“Wot won the larst?”
Red war rolled over Europe, and a partOf Asia and of Egypt heard the guns,But this particular punter had no heartFor triumphs over Turks and over Huns.’Twas true he shared allotments now and thenWith girls whose goo-goo eyes were glad and gay,And always lent his lovely fountain penTo resting barmaids drawing soldiers’ pay.But though the Hun Fleet rots in Scapa Flow,And Britain’s banner fluttered at the mastHe’s quite content if you will let him know —“Wot won the larst?”
Did’st ever pause and ponder, masters mine,Upon the av’rage punter on this earth,His gutter-snipe physique of that designWhich even in the mug arouses mirth?Has confidential whisper and his wink,His furtive handing round of stable wires,His half-reluctant line-up for a drink,His knowledge of all geldings, dams and sires?Before him common liars dim and droop,To him the gaze of questioners is castWhen someone asks above the smell of soup —“Wot won the larst?”
“Wot won the Iarst?” We hear it in the trainFrom weedy little wights whose cigarettesRecall a badly-disinfected drain,And whose whole life is horses, odds and bets,He doesn’t care if kings and kaisers sipThe dregs of exile or a poisoned herb,As long as he can sling a furtive tipAnd mingle with the cadgers on the kerbFor unto him who loafs upon this landIn all the world there is no vic’try vast,As that which prompts a punter to demand — “Wot won the larst?”