Winning Ways

Rhyming Frilly on My Arab Filly

She was iron-sinew'd and satin-skinn'd.
Ribb'd like a drum and limb'd like a deer,
Fierce as the fire and fleet as the wind -
There was nothing she couldn't climb or clear.
Adam Lindsay Gordon, Australian poet
(1833-1870)

My little Arab horse trots by,
Her graceful neck arched to the sky,
That happy flag tail raised up high,
To entertain all passers-by.

This desert beauty, chestnut gold,
A poetry live to behold,
May now be only two years old,
But soon her training will unfold.

Next year, she'll learn to sport her tack,
To carry me upon her back.
And then, my lovely maniac
Will prance for judges, run the track.

Although she may be hard to catch,
A-galloping the pasture patch,
Her stamina, no colt can match.
Opponents she will soon dispatch.

She'll jump the hurdles, swap her lead,
And live up to her winning breed.
The crowd stampede, she will exceed
And earn the ribbons, guaranteed.