Bleeding Horses

All these bleeding horses
you can't hear yourself think
with the racket of their whinnying
last gasp call and answer chants
and Helen pet sheath those trojans
in your blouse there are no incognitos
in this herd, unless you're prone
to necrophiliac urges, move along love
there's nothing to see here
and that coach and four is less
than apocalyptic with its coconut shell
hoofbeats, not spellbound neither
these beasts are walking cold
I think I'll name the deadest Ozymandias 
he's no stalking horse this colt -
concealing sure death for snipe or grouse
behind his shoulder, no there are no birds
and what's more no hands
just a mess of nerve endings congealing
but still standing and we're getting ridden
good and proper then put up wet
by a straw man who hasn't
a notion that he's flogging a pulse deficit
he'll be shocked and awed to feel
haunches buckling forelegs kneeling
as his MoUnt sprawls sideways on the turf
what's worse though is how
all these stable doors are closed with
the stupid bolted nags still in them.