Your hazel irises flash through eyeholes in the stallion's brisket.
I am so impressed I almost do a blow-off.
With this disguise, you are sure to get into the gymkhana.
The morning is muggy and busy with gnats.
I watch you swagger up to the turnstiles,
swishing your curry-coloured forelocks
and whistling Colonel Bogey.
'One let-me-into-the-gymkhana, please,'
you say confidently, and I am 100% sure
our little ruse will work.
The lady inside the booth looks you up and down.
'I think you are a person in a horse suit,' she observes.
'No,' you say. 'You heard it straight from the horse's mouth.'
(this pun is so poor I resolve then and there to call off
our engagement, though I wait two months and cite
my fear of commitment; now you know the truth)
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