pony club teens

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    Slight the scent of wax-polished leather,
    equine royalty stand reluctantly tethered,
    sweet dunged-straw in distant stalls,
    annoucements on tinny speakers call.

    Girls command horses, fifteen hands high,
    their skin-tight jodhpurs make grown men sigh:
    blond-hair, blush cheeks, such snug jackets;
    wild eyed horses rear, what neighing racket!

    Pony club teens, reckless joy riders,
    luck or providence protection providers,
    they whizz past on storm-driven mounts,
    challenge, not safety, taken into account.

    Clock tower tolls twelve, imitates Big Ben,
    horses judged by bulbous, bowler-hatted men;
    po-faced riders, gamine pretty or plump,
    gallantly they gallop, canter, or jump.

    Clear round competitions, clapping crowds,
    holding onto reins, proprietors proud;
    other exhibitors exchange winks knowing,
    their mounts buff-brushed, sheen sun glowing.

    Hand lifted hats arrest equine attention,
    hooves tamp turf, shit spoils any pretension,
    picture perfect snap, impatient tails wave;
    rural accents, pipe smoke, farmyard aftershave,

    Bored horses peek over worn half doors,
    verbless horses whinny, primal urges gnaw,
    dark cobbled corridors, dung plaster-pasted,
    hay haze seen, oaten scent almost tasted….

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