A gypsy said she'd tell me who would win the annual race,

I paid her fifty dollars as a fee,

she gazed into her crystal ball then stared up into space,

a deep voice from her throat said: "Number Three!"

I sold the house and car and reaped a neat two hundred grand,

then borrowed fifty-thousand from my son,

my wife went back to Mother, she just didn't understand,

the world would be our oyster when we won!

The horses trotted past the stand, the people cheered and clapped,

the number three horse glistened in the sun,

my money had been laid and now the bookmakers were trapped -

locked into handsome odds of ten to one!

They're off! They thundered from the gates and headed down the track,

with number three already showing speed,

with flashing whips and jockey's cries they galloped round the back,

two furlongs out and he was in the lead!

They raced around the final turn, my horse was in top flight,

I trembled as he led them down the straight,

then past the post - but suddenly, I read the number right -

it wasn't number three, but number eight!

I went back to the gypsy, I was broke and in a mess,

"You told me it would win - you made it clear!"

"I'm never wrong," the gypsy said, "although I must confess:

perhaps I should have told you in which year!"
 

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