G. ran clean through his lee and beat him twice with a lob.
He yorked him twice on a crumbling pitch and wiped his eye with a
brace,
But his guy-rope split with the strain of it and he dropped back
out of the race;
And I drew a bead on the Meteor's lead, and challenging none too
soon,
Bent over and patted her garboard strake, and called upon Wooden
Spoon.
She was all of a shiver forward, the spoondrift thick on her flanks,
But I'd brought her an easy gambit, and nursed her over the banks;
She answered her helm--the darling! and woke up now with a rush,
While the Meteor's jock, he sat like a rock--he knew we rode for
his brush!
There was no one else left in it. The Saint was using his whip,
And Safety Match, with a lofting catch, was pocketed deep at slip;
And young Ben Bolt with his niblick took miss at Leander's lunge,
But topped the net with the ricochet, and Steinitz threw up the
sponge.
But none of the lot could stop the rot--nay, don't ask _me_ to stop!
The villa had called for lemons, Oom Paul had taken his drop,
And both were kicking the referee.
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