I'll write the poem from memory, so assume errors.
I don't know where line and stanza breaks go.
The name may possibly be "The Equestrian," but I don't know.
The poem:
My gentle child, behold this horse,
a noble animal of course,
though not to be relied on.
I wish he would not stand and snort
oh frankly he is not the sort
your father likes to ride on.
His head is tossing up and down
and he has frightened half the town
by making gestures with his feet
while now and then he stops to eat
in inconvenient places.
He nearly murdered me today
by trotting in the wildest way
through half a mile of forest.
And now he treads upon the curb,
consuming some attractive herb
he borrowed from the florist.
I strike him roughly with my hand.
He does not seem to understand.
He simply won't be bothered
to walk in peace as I suggest,
a little way toward the west.
He prances to the northerd.
And yet, by popular repute,
he is a mild well mannered brute,
and very well connected.
Alas it is a painful fact
that horses almost never act
as anyone expected.
Yet there are men prepared to place
a sum of money on a race
in which a horse is running.
An animal as fierce as this,
as full of idle prejudice,
and every bit as cunning.
And it is marvelous to me
that grown-up gentlemen can be
so simple, so confiding.
I envy them, but oh my son,
I cannot think that they have done
a great amount of riding.
