Looks the gab of the gift horse
in the whites of its eyes.
Pulls the rabbit out of his headlights,
and finds a fast buck.
Has the luck of the drawstring,
all mouth and trousers round his uncles.
Heads for the high jump through the hoops
with a first night Fosbury flop.
Touches everything he turns on a sixpence
to the old crock of gold over the rainbow.
Opens Pandora's can of worms
with one eye on splicing the main chance.
Is the nut to crack the hammer and tongs
when the going's as good as it gets.
Flies his kitemark, could flog a dead sheep
till the sands of time ran out of steam,
the cows came home to roost, the sky
was the speed limit, and there were
bluebottles over the moon cliffs of Dover,
tomorrow, just you wait your turn.