(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.

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!

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)