| Like porridge cooling off, until it's just right,
I gallop off gleefully, into the night. My steed, she is ebony, and swift of hoof. I carol away drunkenly, as she leaps roof to roof. The stars are my streetlamps, the chimneys my hurdles My freedom is my lantern, my cloak and saddle, my girdles. With the reins in my teeth and the spurs on my knees I tear through the evening and go where I please. My steed, she is tireless, or at least she seems so. She swims through the dumpsters--a fine skill as they go. Then I tear her away and aim her downtown-- she's glorified by peelings, a tin can is my crown. We sashay on up to a neighborhood bar the patrons all stare, as lowly as they are. I put my steed in neutral and tie her to a tree As I chock her wheels I notice that someone has taken note of me. So I leave her there, as unsecured as she is, and turn to meet some rowdy, and learn about his biz. "Why do you approach, you rustic old peasant?" He swears in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant. I unsheath my wakasashi as I prepare for attack, then he slaps me something funny and everything goes black. When I awoke next weekend, I was feeling much better. I went in, ordered a scotch, and we went home together. I need to go mend my scepter, as a matter of course, so if you want to know any more, then please ask my horse. |
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