Category Archives: Horses

Megan’s Christmas

It was Christmas Eve at the stables,
And Santa had delivered some toys,
Nobody heard,
and so nobody stirred,
Cos Santa he don’t make much noise.

All of the horses had presents,
Except Megan, who Santa had missed,
Which just goes to show,
As all children know,
It’s true, Santa does keep a list.

As Santa was leaving the stables,
With all of the horses asleep,
The sound of a crash,
And a terrible smash,
Santa’s Sleigh had hit the muck heap.

Rudolf had gone lame on take-off,
His tendon had gone in mid flight,
Santa lost all control,
And went into a roll,
The rest wasn’t a very nice sight.

“Oh what shall I do?” cried Santa,
“If Rudolf can’t fly any more”,
And then from afar,
He saw a bright star,
It was Megan looking over her door.

“Megan, with your star so bright,
Will you guide my sleigh tonight?”.

Santa pulled the sleigh out of the heap,
It should still fly if he had any luck,
It had lost the odd bell,
And had a bit of a smell,
Cos the sleigh was covered in muck.

Megan lept into the harness,
Santa knew it would all be OK,
For Santa well knew,
That though covered with poo,
He could still make a quadraped fly.

When they had visited every last house,
And every last stable as well,
The whole world awoke,
And started to choke,
“What the hell was that terrible smell?”

Well Santa went home for a well earned bath,
And Megan went back to her stable,
Santa left her real snug,
In a new bright red rug,
“MERRY CHRISTMAS” it said on the label.

By John Peters

Letter to Santa, from a horse aged 9

Dear Father Christmas, You’re busy I know,
Please read my letter before you go.
I heard you keep a little list,
Of who’s been bad and should be missed.
And I thought I might enquire of you,
Are the names of horses on it too?

I sometimes spook a little bit,
Sometimes for fun I must admit.
I meant no harm; it’s just a game,
On the “bad” list, did you put my name?
I’m sorry that I play about,
If I’m good now, would you rub it out?

Dear Santa, I sometimes kick and bite,
And I’m not suggesting this is right.
But then it seemed the thing to do,
I hope you see my point of view.
If you could mark me down as good,
I’d be the nicest horse I could.

In my stable I am prone to weave,
But I’ll stand still on Christmas Eve,
I won’t suck wind; I won’t crib bite,
I won’t box walk throughout the night.
I’ll try and curb my every vice,
If you would write me down as nice.

I’m not so bad; I’m just a horse,
And you can’t blame me for that of course,
I mostly do as I am told,
And normally I am good as gold,
And what I want is nothing shocking,
Just a carrot or two in my Christmas stocking

By John Peters

Ryan Heste, Dressage Horse

Ryan is a dressage horse, though a coward by tradition,
So I thought that I might enter him in a dressage competition.
I’m sure he’ll do it very well, the best horse in the show,
The only problem being that he will not want to go.

Ryan knows his dressage paces, and I know he’s very able,
But come the morning of the show, he’ll be hiding in his stable.
There’s a knocking in the horsebox, is the engine ’bout to seize?
Try looking in the back, Yes, it’s Ryan’s knocking knees.

With the dressage judges waiting, we’ll explain we’re very sorry,
“Yes, I’d like to do the test, but he won’t come out the lorry”.
Then he’ll have a little pep talk with the Vicar and the Vet,
Then he’ll bravely leave the lorry, then he’ll break out in a sweat.

Ryan enters the arena, In at ‘A’ in working trot,
He stops at ‘X’, his mind is blank, the test he has forgot.
“Don’t look at me”, I’ll say to him, while sitting on his back,
You’re the so called dressage horse, I only want to hack.

By John Peters

Ragwort the Ginger Legs

Ragwort The Ginger Legs, there’s not a one to match her,
She the finest horse you’ll ever ride if only you could catch her,

Her paces are magnificent, the best you’ll ever find,
Just watch that trot and canter, as her rider runs behind.

Ragwort The Ginger Legs, As all good horses aught,
Will trot up to her rider when she’s ready to be caught,

She’ll stand as her headcollar is slipped around her head,
She will not move a muscle, even as she’s being lead.

She’ll stand there looking placid as her rider pulls and pushes,
She just selects her moment then she kicks him in the bushes,

Ragwort The Ginger Legs, she really likes her tack,
But not the bridle on her head or the saddle on her back,

Or her girth or brushing boots, and the martingale can go,
But she doesn’t mind her rosette, ‘cos she won that in a show.

By John Peters

Lady Jane Fits-Hamilton’s Daughter

Who rides a horse that mummy had brought her,
Who owns a horse with a bright pink Halter,
Who’s cross-country hopeful is frightened of water,
It’s Lady Jane Fitz-Hamilton’s Daughter.

Who didn’t listen to those who had taught her,
Who in the show-jumping final did falter,
Who knocked down the fences, who’s temper got shorter,
It’s Lady Jane Fitz-Hamilton’s Daughter.

Who with the groom tried what she didn’t oughta,
Who would have succeeded had daddy not caught her,
Who ended up with the groom at the altar,
It’s Lady Jane Fitz-Hamilton’s Daughter.

By John Peters

Silly Horse Clipping Poem

When your horse is hairy and he really needs a clip,
Get yourself a twitching stick and grab him by the lip.
Fill him full of sedative or half a crate of ale,
Get yourself an anvil and tie it to his tail.
Set his feet in concrete, tie his body to the wall,
Lock his door and bolt it. That should fix the animal.

If you’re a hairy horse and they think you need a clip,
Tell them that you disagree by giving them a nip.
Kick them in the clippers and watch them turning pale,
As you hit them with an anvil through a well aimed swish of tail.
Run around the stable, smash a hole right through the wall.
Gallop out to freedom shouting “Hairy Horses Rule”.

By John Peters

PRELIM 10 (2002)

A Dressage test for horse and poet

Enter A at working trot, proceeding down the centre line,
Turn right at C,
Past M and B,
If you’re at F you’re doing fine.

Half circle now, 10 metres wide in working trot from F to D,
Diagonal swap,
Without a stop,
Returning to the track at B.

Leaving B in working trot, go past M and round to C,
You have to steer,
A circle here,
20 metres accurately.

From C, go round past H, past E, until you have arrived at K,
Circle to D,
Then back to E,
Just like before, but the other way.

Trotting on, from E to H, and then to C you do return,
A circle ride,
20 metres wide,
Nice and round is your concern.

Continue trotting round the track, from C to M and then to B,
Turn right to X,
Diagonal checks,
And then turn left when you reach E.

From E to K keep trotting, prepare for Cantering at A,
It’s not a race,
Just change of pace,
Now pass the mark and chocks away.

Canter left from A to B, then circle 20 meters round,
Half way touch E,
Then back to B,
Then canter off, C’ward bound.

Canter round the track to M, keep in canter passing C,
Not too fast,
Just canter past,
At H you cross diagonally.

To F and you have a change of pace, change of rein and change of bend.
A tricky bit,
But stick with it,
As down to trot you do descend.

At A, a pace change yet again, you need a medium walk at A,
It’s not so taxing,
But no relaxing,
There’s more to do on reaching K.

At K there is a change of rein, still walking but now long and free,
A chance to flex,
Your horses necks,
Stretched, relaxed, across to B.

Stay free walking down to M, then medium walk, take up your rein.
Prepare to trot,
C marks the spot,
Then you’re back to working trot again.

Trot on past H, trot on to E, turn left across through X you go,
Turn right at B,
Trot on neatly,
Prepare your canter skills to show.

At A take canter, around to E, then canter 20 meters round,
Half way touch B,
Then back to E,
It’s easy if your horse is sound.

From E, in canter, through H C M, then canter down to K,
Now once again,
You change the rein,
Then working trot to A.

From A go down the centre line, don’t stop at X, go on to G,
Then halt, don’t budge,
Salute the Judge,
Exit A, reins long and free.

By John Peters

Megan’s Poem

Today I can’t face Polos,
And peppermint makes me cry,
As does the smell of garlic,
But struggle through, I’ll try.
Today, I’m in the office,
Lost in work if I am able,
This evening I will stay at home,
I won’t be at the stable.

There is an old head-collar,
Now hanging on the door,
And in the hall, a body brush,
Is lying on the floor.
A Mane comb in the bathroom,
There’s a lead rope on a chair,
They all serve to remind me,
That Megan isn’t there.

The yard now seems so empty,
Her stable seems so bare,
Everything is different,
Now Megan isn’t there.
Giving Meg a happy life,
That was my only goal,
And now just like a polo,
My life has got a hole.

She has no use now for a saddle,
Her bridle or her rein,
She will not need her brushing boots,
Or combs to do her mane.
Now she can’t get colic,
And now she can’t go lame,
But I miss her more than anything,
And life is not the same.

By John Peters