A Poem Dedicated To The Shy Beastess…

Summersaulting through November air,

High on tepid brookwater and wizened brew,

Flies our hero who bested the mare,

Which in the end proved a friend untrue.


He or she, or it or that, it may or may not be,

Whom crooned a carillon that made the crowd swoon,

Whose fleet of footed-ness fell on one and three,

Is to be hitched to a mysterious and unknown groom. australian casino