Rider's Fable

One slap on his slab of a broad slovened back
Barged him onto a saddle and back into glee.
He stared round the King's Horse, and the King's Horse's horses -
Bright rumtinted men, coursers' limpid grave eyes -

"Wilt thou ride?" said the Colonel to tall Williamson,
"Ay, perhaps." "Well, but take him too." "Ay..."
"Yes, we'll ride," said the rider,
That rider to be.

And Williamson, taller than he, laughed less loud,
And as they walked back through prompt, apt winter cloud,
Muttered "Damn you! The Devil! What made you say ride?"
"The joy of the hour - take heart", rider cried.

And walked rider stoutly across mundane marsh,
And he rammed on the oakhold and yelled "Woman" out,
"I'd have now your pasty, I'd take now your pleasure,
And fain would I steer you, curved from a harsh dawn."

"The pasty is cold, for I don't take your meaning."
"Then tip me some liquor and I'll make that clear."
"What clear and what liquor?"
"The ichor of parting -
Sold high with my Colonel
Tomorrow I'll ride."

"That you won't," smarted lady.
Rider: "Am." Lady: "Aren't".
Rider - "Bread up my saddle"
Lady - "Saddle? God knows
It's a bridle thou'rlt keen for before even sits."

Rider belted the lady,
And reddened himself,
Kicked Williamson, buckled his edged life-preserver,

And watered, provisioned and marched
To the public house - ever "I'll ride!"
For he'd pluck the most hardened prayermen from their stooling
For the joy of the bawling "Dost thou hate me? I ride!"

But before even sat, limped single to woman:
"'Tis fear lone can salvage the flailings of pride."