Words: John Dengate
Tune: WS Hays (Seamus O'Brien)
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Each Saturday morning I crawl out of bed
Hung-over from Friday's excess,
Feeling crook in the "comics" and crook in the head
With a mountain of sins to confess.
But then I remember it's race day again
I collect up my clothes from the floor
I tune into Mahoney's selections at ten -
The adrenalin's pumping once more
At Warwick Farm, Randwick or Rosehill they race,
It's a sign of our moral decay,
But wipe that superior look off your face,
I expect a trifecta today.
I have a quick piss, I give breakfast a miss,
Wallet and form guide I grab,
Then I suddenly bolt like a two year old colt
Away down the road to the TAB.
It's number of units and number of race,
The numbers spin round in my brain,
And I stand there blaspheming and cursing the place
The biro is broken again.
Oh the long shots are rough and the favourites are short
And I never know what's running dead
So I ring up my mate, but he got home so loate
His mother won't rouse him from bed.
Ron Quinton could win on a horse made of tin
So I back everything that he rides
And the big Melbourne grey is a good thing each way
And a couple of others besides.
And fellas, quinellas are always a chance
And doubles are sometimes a go
So when I walk out I feel light in the pants
For the TAB has got all of my dough
A short break for grub, then I'm into the pub
And I stand there and weep in my booze
For the horses I back veer all over the track
And they lose and they lose and they lose.
Oh seek not escape in the gambling my friend
Though life may be hum-drum and drab;
Seek solace in psalms or in fair ladies arms
But never go into a TAB.
Another from the wonderful Dengate.
The government-owned TAB (Totalisator Agency Boards) in each state conducted off-site legal betting on horse-racing in Australia. They were all eventually privatised.