THE OLD SPORT.

The Old Sport sat in his grand stand chair,
with dung on his pants and lice in his hair,
And his voice rang out on the evening air;
"He'l win in a walk, by gosh!"

*-->

"His record's straight, he can't go slow--
He's out of Black Bess and Hungry Joe--
And of all that field he'll made a show;
He'll win in a walk, by gosh!"

"Just wait till you see them him loose,
He'll go through that field like shit through a goose;
Just like an ace a-beating a duce.
He'll win in a walk, by gosh!"

They cam down the strectch and that bastard was third,
He worked up to second, then slipped on a turd
And fell in the ditch. . . And that son of bitch
Never finished at all, by gosh!



[Handwritten addition to the typscript above, indicated with a star to be inserted after the 1st verse]

* I ain't got no money, but i I was rich
I'd go dead broke on that son of a bitch
When he gets started he'll make 'em all itch
He'll win in walk, by Jesus!

Pg 272, The Canfield Collection, [undated, c1927, typscript with ms addition].

See online here:

https://archive.org/details/1926canfieldcollection/page/n271/mode/2up