Returned from a ride,
Carl, Catherine and I’d
Always find ourselves in disarray.
Two little girls,
Penny loafers and curls,
‘Top our mud-smattered Clydesdale valet.
Bedraggled with crud,
Would we scrub, soak, and sud
At the comely colt’s calico coat.
Stood he seventeen hands,
Of a thoroughbred strand
(And of Flemish descent, I might note).
One day it was so,
As we buffed from below,
There unsheathed a prodigious projection.
Consumed, Catherine teemed,
“Clean his penis!” she screamed,
Seizing hold of the equine erection.
So we lathered and gripped,
But we slipped as it whipped.
Washing bronco dong proved quite the feat.
A-mustering our might,
Firmly latching on tight,
The steed’s staff swept us clean off our feet.
“Don’t let go!” Catherine cried,
And for dear life, we tried
To hold on to the renegade rod.
To the cock, did we cling,
To and fro, would we swing,
Our foray, we feared fatally flawed.
When abruptly, he bucked,
From his prick, we were plucked,
And like two little dolls, were we tossed.
Unawares of the scope,
And presuming ‘twas soap
In which suddenly then we’d been glossed.
Now Forty years gone,
Fully grown and moved on,
Since that cosmically curious day.
Only just twenty-eight
Since sweet Cat met her fate,
Crushed to death ‘neath a large Cleveland Bay.
By her grave I reflect,
As I pay my respect,
And I lay down a wreath of bay laurel.
Every now and again,
Do I think of my friend,
And a calico Clydesdale called Carl.
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