(credit: needpix.com)
(credit: I, Trebaxus, via Wikimedia Commons)
(credit: Dergayuza, via Wikipedia)
Bucephalus Among The Houyhnhnms
Freedom was calling me,
Through the fresh morning air,
Calling insistently,
"Come away! Come away!"
I, the old warhorse, was
Strange to the polo field,
Played without riders, much
Faster and harder.
“Team!” I neigh, whinnying
Startling the other studs,
Four across, staring up.
"Who or what's calling us?"
I, the determined one,
Handle the polo ball,
Wait for the opening,
As skilled as parade.
As skilled as parade.
Under a sun in a
Blue of incredible,
Thund’ring the turf with its
Chalky fresh lines.
Roar from the sporting herd,
Wild in the moment.
Dust, sweat, and blood,
And the fillies are screaming:
“Do it! Oh, do it!
He's making his move.”
Make a move! make a move!
Look at them! Half awake!
Battlefields don't forgive!
Hup!
Hup!
Disciplined quickness,
(I loved Alexander!),
Never surrenders.
It dodges defenders.
It joys in the splendors,
Then, dekes for the op’ning, and
Drives the sphere home.
(credit: Roger Schulz, via Wikimedia)
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