Cold Hooves on My Back (Stalked by a Horse)

 

 

   

A horse followed me to the pub last night.
It cantered through the door
of the saloon bar,
nodding nonchalantly to one and all;
going incognito in aviator shades,
stovepipe hat and flowing flowery blouse,
with rouged red lips drawn back
to reveal the sort of teeth
Ken Dodd might sport in Hades.

Come last orders,
it was a debauched scene.
I was down to my very last fiver.
There was steaming
                                and whinnying
                                and foaming at the mouth
and the horse didn't look too good either.

She trotted over to my table,
told me that her name was Mabel.
She put her hoof on my hand,
said, "Boy, you are my man".
I felt temporarily robbed of speech
and hankered for a snootful of Stacy Keach.

I wanted to leave her in bin bags
outside of the vets
but before I knew it
we were karaokeing duets,
singing Chantilly Lace of all things.
I was a Happy Shopper Big Bopper.
I tried my damnedest to run
but to my shame I came a cropper.
She got me in the saddle.
Nobody tried to stop her.


I woke in the green sickly light of dawn
(the Black Beauty theme banging in my head)
to feel her cold hooves pressed against my back
and see her horseshoes pushed beneath the bed.

B.R. 02/12/2015