This Monday on the eve of the festival always seems to be one of the slowest days of the year so for a bit of fun i've done this. Our Father who art at flight seven, braided by thy mane, Thy raceday come, thy shall of won, On turf as it is in heaven. Give us this hay our daily bread, and forgive us our falls, as we forgive those who lay against us, and lead us into the winners enclosure, but deliver us from Rishi Persad. For thine is the glory, the legend, and the story, told forever and ever. Neighmen I hope everyone has a great festival with plenty of winners!!
