A wolf-eyed man who carried a kipe Whistled as shrill as a man could pipe, Then paused and grinned with his gaps of teeth Crying "Here's your colours for Compton Heath, All the colours of all the starters, For gentlemen's ties and ladies' garters; Here you have them, penny a pin, Buy your colours and see them win. Here you have them, the favourites' own, Sir Lopez' colours, the blue-white-roan, For all the races and what'll win 'em Real jockey's silk with a pin to pin 'em." Out of his kipe he sold to many Bright silk buttons and charged a penny. A bookie walked with his clerk beside him, His stool on his shoulders seemed to ride him, His white top-hat bore a sign which ran "Your old pal Bunkie the working man." His clothes were a check of three-inch squares, "Bright brown and fawn with the pearls in pairs," Double pearl buttons ran down the side, The knees were tight and the ankles wide, A bright, thick chain made of discs of tin Secured a board from his waist to chin. The men in the brakes that passed at trot Read "First past Post" and "Run or Not." The bookie's face was an angry red, His eyes seemed rolling inside his head. His clerk was a lean man, secret, spare, With thin lips knowing and damp black hair. A big black bag much weathered with rain Hung round his neck by a leathered chain. Seven linked dancers singing a song Bowed and kicked as they danced along, The middleman thrust and pulled and squeezed A concertina to tunes that pleased. After them, honking, with Hey, Hey, Hey, Came drivers thrusting to clear the way, Drivers vexed by the concertina, Saying "Go bury that d----d hyena." Drivers dusty with wind-red faces Leaning out of their driving-places. The dancers mocked them and called them names: "Look at our butler," "Drive on, James." The cars drove past and the dust rose after, Little boys chased them yelling with laughter, Clambering on them when they slowed For a dirty ride down a perch of road. A dark green car with a smart drab lining Passed with a stately pair reclining; Peering walkers standing aside Saw Soyland's owner pass with his bride, Young Sir Eustace, biting his lip, Pressing his chin with his finger-tip, Nerves on edge, as he could not choose, From thought of the bets he stood to lose. His lady, a beauty whom thought made pale, Prayed from fear that the horse might fail. A bright brass rod on the motor's bonnet Carried her husband's colours on it, Scarlet spots on a field of cream: She stared ahead in a kind of dream.