(A Sheffield Greyhound)
By Gill Ashworth
Born in a storm in the city of steel
Ninth floor of Hyde Park flats
Not a good start for a racing dog
Being the last one out the traps
The ultimate one in a litter of six
This poor pup was nearly forgotten
His mother rolled over on top of him
And squashed him something rotten
His life began in a smoky front room
Shared bed a tatty cardboard box
short haired coat was grey all over
Bar his tail and the 4 white socks
The finest greyhound racing stock
His owner had great expectations
Born and bred to be a racing hound
The same as all his close relations
His father was named Ned the Bullet
He had many trophies to his name
Always triumphed at the stadium
And he featured in the hall of fame
His mother had some big wins too
Till a racing accident left her lame
Put to work raising litters of pups
Feed the grey hound racing games
Now these were all the lucky ones
As they had all been racing winners
They earned their owners lots of cash
That provided them with good dinners
But what of those who came in last
The ones who suffered great defeats?
Owners would just turn them loose
Leave them wandering in the streets
Though smaller than all his siblings
He would always beat them in a dash
His owner made plans to race him
And he named him Ned the Flash
Simply couldn’t wait until this pup
Was of an age he could be trained
But little did he know, this pup Flash
Was also born and blessed with brains
Wednesday nights the folks arrived
With their flat caps, and their dogs
A good occasion to flash their cash
And get dressed up in fancy togs
Flash loved it when he was taken
To run race round Owlerton track
It was obvious from an early age
That pup Flash was best of pack
But he started to notice that losers
Well, they just seemed to disappear
And that little voice inside his head
That kept on whispering in his ear
It told him something wasn’t right
He started questioning the reason
The dogs that didn’t make the grade
Were all absent the next season
On his racing debut at the stadium
He could hear the crowd’s loud roar
Place had the smell of oil and rubber
From speedway racing night before
He decided he should make a stand
Before for some hound, it was too late
Put a stop to the dog racing cruelty
Save the losers from a horrible fate
In the traps the tension mounted
Then they’re off to chase the hare
Flash just sat, then turned around
As though he didn’t have a care
His owner shouted, but to no avail
And then to make the matter worse
He set off at speed around the track
But instead of forwards, in reverse
Well, the crowd were all in stitches
As Flash crossed the finishing line
Outrunning all the other dogs
And with a record beating time
He could have run another lap
Before the others made it home
But he enjoyed the crowd’s cheers
And he just sat down, quietly alone
But disqualified it meant no prize
A red-faced owner counted the cost
Not only his pride, but all the cash
On the several bets that he had lost
Folks said “tha’s got a thick ‘un Jack”
“Tha’s gonna have to turn im loose”
Meanwhile owner racked his brain
To find the reason and good excuse
Poor Flash he had to face the music
With his tail firmly between his legs
And instead of the winner’s dinner
All he received that night was dregs
But afterwards as a new day dawned
Flash became an overnight sensation
The news of his racing exploits travelled
And had spread right across the nation
He made the Headlines, television
He got ten thousand YouTube views
Greyhound racing featured heavily
That very same evening on the News
And it was raised the sport required
Consideration, regulation overhauls
If the people were going to accept it
As a recognised racing sport at all
We should all try to be like Flash
Barking up when things aren’t right
Flash stood up for his fellow dogs
And he changed things overnight
His owner even got the message
And he began to mend his ways
He took good care of all his dogs
And showered Flash with praise
Having widespread celebrity status
Made him worth his weight in gold
Earned a fortune doing dog food ads
A life of luxury, whilst growing old
He fathered seven litters of his own
Who all looked just the spit of him
All of them pups were winners too
With the genes that gave them vim.
