The wind blew through the crevices of our tackroom walls that night.
We were bedded down in a vacant stall and the moon shone big and bright.
The backstretch of ole Stamford Park was quiet as a jail,
‘Cept for the occasional rattle of an empty water pail.
The mare had run her race that day, we’d bet our loot and won,
And just returned from Niagara Falls where we had a little fun,
Our bottle was almost empty, a spider did remain,
Which we’d consumer next morning to relieve a gnawing pain.
We lay there just a talking, ‘cause none of us could sleep;