Wild horses
My son, the time has come for you to canter
across the field and vault the picket fence.
Nuzzle me once more, then get thee hence –
alas, there is no time for idle banter.
In freezer five thy father lies in Tesco,
round in shape and coated deep in frost;
but still I see him, nostrils flared, mane tossed
and whispering how great sex was al fresco.
But now is time to set thy fetlocks flowing,
as laid down by the ancient equine hymn.
I am old and sadly weak of limb,
but you, my darling son, you must be going.
Run swift to where the wild horses thrive –
the Findus van is coming up the drive.
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