Their natural habitats vary widely, as they are an adaptable lot:
Sometimes a sufficiently surreptitious booth in a bar on the main stem,
Poring over a gaggle of Racing Forms,
Perhaps a convenient light stanchion
Just inside the track’s main gate,
Maybe even behind some lectern
Fronting some staid, stately stained glass,
But, in any case, a tout is a tout is a tout,
Their dissertations and dissection of speed ratings and other holy text
Promulgated as gospel truth
(Albeit tinged with a sotto voce touch of the disclaimer,
That nothing can shake its author’s faith
As long as the weather is clear,
The pace not too frantic over the opening quarter)
Though the nuances of sacred writ lead prelate and pundit
To come to quite opposite conclusions as to the race’s outcome
(Indeed, the disagreements can become quite heated)
Leaving the wagering public with little more to do
Than clutch sheaves of pari-mutual tickets
Close to their chests in the manner of rosaries,
Knowing that as their favored mount
Makes its way to the paddock for that final time,
It’s all too likely the tote board will flash “INQUIRY”
In grave and portentous typescripts.