134th. running of the Roses

Dads-Trifecta


Big Brown
Blew into town
His mark he came to make
Three starts
Three wins
He was the fav-or-ite!

Eight Belles
The story trails
Unbridaled's Song she sang
Whistles shrill
The filly fell
Our hearts she stole, that day

Denis of Cork
The classic dork
The menus that he be
He came from the back
To show at the last
In the spot of the number three


A/Note: We call this one small grandson "Dill Pickle" as he's such a serious old soul at two and a half years old.
On Kentucky Derby weekend he was in route to our house with his parents. They pulled up to a traffic light alongside a large brown truck. Pickle leaned forward from his car seat in the back, pointed at the truck and much to his parents surprise, read the letters, U.P.S.!
"Big Brown" is named after the large truck. Good call on the breeders part. Dill Pickle watched his first Kentucky Derby while eating grapes, on a tall stack of pillows, in his grandparents home. Playing the ponies is a family tradition. His great grandfather called twenty-five minutes before the race to remind us, it wasn't too late to call our bets into Vegas. He himself, hadn't had a chance to, as he'd been under the weather, but he had a hunch on the trifecta, if we cared to wager? The girls in our family, we are much more concerned with the hats on derby day, rather than, the actual betting. We remained glued to the t.v. checking out the hats, the jockeys and the beautiful sleek horses.
This poem is for Dill Pickle and his up and coming gallop. And once again, I must admit Dad, too bad we didn't listen! Your trifecta would have paid, nicely.