Stirrup Irons and Wailing Sirens

I am from the synthetic turf, Of which I never wish to touch myself. I’m from beyond the mint juleps and fancy hats, Where there isn’t such thing as wealth. I’m from the steeplechase barns, With the sharp hooves, And soft muzzles, Trainers, Jocks, Personalities all like puzzles. I am from the races, Bonding with angry little men, Sarcastic faces, Drunken to a 10. I am from the winners circle, Screaming, laughing my ass off, Crying the happiest of tears. You win some, but you sure lose some throughout the tiresome years. I am from the stirrup irons, Forgetting what it’s like to enjoy food. I am from the scales, Watching my legs grow longer and longer, As my chances grow shorter and shorter, Yeah Pops, I know, I know, a Jock’s life is crude. I’m from the top rail, Learning things I shouldn’t, From people I’m so glad to know. Laughing, cursing like sailors, Holding my breath for a second, That will always feel like an eternity, Never making a sound, Though the hoof beats drum on internally, As the round the turn that I would so love to know, The flashes of goggles, bats, manes tales, Friend against foe. I am from a family of two, Not caring who or where the others might be, Where I’m from, We’ve got more than we need. I am from the line, For where the dot is- I wish not to see. I’m from the land of ‘it ain’t over till it’s over’ The land of coming up from behind, I’ll tell them that my intentions are not kosher, That Zenyatta surely has my state of mind. I’m from the Sport of Kings, I wish to someday be its Queen, Though I’m just a cheap claimer- don’t worry Pops I’ll make it, Only at the racetrack, The bell of my heart forever rings.