He can talk when he trots;
he has hooves, not feet.
This half-man, half-horse strangeness
can’t sit down on a chair seat.
Before he was a babe:
the coupling of a twain.
This interspecies engagement. . .
horse body, human mane.
The years go by, he’s hoofin’
through the pastures lush and green.
Not pure equine or sapiens, he’s something in between.
His blood ain’t cold.
his mother, she in the hay rolled.
The baby was a centaurfoal,
baby was a centaurfoal.
Slipped in, Roan, under her dress
after running in the Preakness.
Forget guys; she yearned for Bay;
quadrupeds caught her eye.
He was skakin’ in his shoes,
his member engashed. . .then baby’s due.
Nearly whole-year pregnancy,
then to babe, they say, “Hi!”
Got soft fuzzy withers
but mandibles likes Chuck’s,
which speak, produce no neighing spree
but words like “trucks” and “ducks.”
The drunks toast, “Skol!”
but what they see makes their eyes roll:
gazing on a centaurfoal,
gazing on a centaurfoal.
Their blood runs cold
they think, DTs! out of control!!
when gazing at the centaurfoal.
AA then on them takes hold.
On four legs this wonder stands;
when full-grown, he’ll be 14 hands.
We hope that when such issue’s spawned,
call so problems are nil
on the newborn’s arrival,
’cause in a stall, no sterile room,
is the place for survival.
His pard and he go on a trip—
no mane on which her hands to grip.
And so she must apply it:
saddle; a least, ain’t gotta buy bit.
Their love unfolds:
equinity and she hay-roll.
But will babe be centaurfoal,
will babe be a centaurfoal.
The months by roll:
the pregnancy starts to unfold
The “bay”be brays like Inter’ trolls
, may display his inner ’hole.
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. . . .”