His name was Stewball, he was a white horse
He was my idol and I was ten years old.
Our poor father to buy this thoroughbred
Had put in the business down to his last franc.
He had in mind to make a great champion
To liquidate our debts and pay off the house.
He believed in his luck, he hired Stewball
On a beautiful Sunday at the Grand Prix of Saint-Paul.
I know, my father said that Stewball will win
But after the river Stewball fell.
When the vet a single blow finished him
I saw my father cry for the first time.
His name was Stewball, he was a white horse
He was my idol and I I was ten years old.