Red carousel of elegance, we gallop round and round.
The Setters seem to float, like autumn leaves on windy ground.
It's sizzling and feathering is flying as we run.
Another day, another show, another just for fun.
We pose in line, like poppies on parade, and now,
the judge approaches, assessing how they're made.
Shoulders, feet, head and teeth, he really seeks perfection.
He strolls along the line before making his selection.
He doesn't seem to dwell on us at all - a handler,
not so famous, we'll be overlooked,
discarded as before.
We're strawberry chocolates in a box
and only he knows what he'll choose.
I steel myself to slink away, as frequently we lose.
But this war is not yet over, as we're beckoned from the line.
My hands are shaking as we prepare to battle one more time.
Jazz glides with grace, magnificent, coat burnished in the sun.
She's singled out - a crimson flash- a handshake and we've won!