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Poem	Of course they say if this Bobadil starts He'll settle 'em all in a flash: For the pace he can go will be breaking their hearts, And he ends with the "Bobadil dash". But there's one in the race is a fance of mine Whenever the distance is far -- Crosslake! He's inbred to the Yattendon line, And we know what the Yattendons are. His feet are his trouble: they're tender as gum! If only his feet are got straight, If the field were all Bobadils --let 'em all come So long as they carry the weight. For a three-year-old colt with nine-three on his back -- Well, he needs to be rather a star! And with seven stone ten we will trust the old black, For we know what the Yattendons are. He is sired by Lochiel, which ensures that his pace Is enough, and a little to spare. But the blood that will tell at the end of the race Is the blood of the Yattendon mare. And this "Bobby" will find, when the whips are about, It's a very fast journey and far. And there's just the least doubt -- will he battle it out? Nut we know what the Yattendons are. In the rest of the field there are some that can stay, And a few that can fly -- while they last. But the old black outsider will go all the way, And finish uncommonly fast. If his feet last him out to the end of the trip -- Bare-footed or shod with a bar -- If he once gets this Bobadil under the whip, Then he'll show what the Yattendons are.
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