It ain’t exactly a journey,
’cause it’s measured in yards, not miles.
It has prancing inside of a ring;
it’s a dorky horsey thing.
And what of the horseshit around which flies buzz
after it falls to ground?
Is it cleaned up before to the sky
stench rises, knocks rider down?

He’s into the dressage on a horse with roped mane;
it felt good to be out, off on the plain.
It’s the dressage, a beyond bizarre game
with a prancing pony that's slow and so tame.

Prance-prance-prance. . . .

It’s a strange way the dressage is done
by riders in top-hat threads.
Is the equine in the dressage numbed?
Horse looks like it’s on horse or such “meds.”
It’s the boringest show, like curling on ice floe.
Plus, the nag’s done up in dreads.

You see, he’s into the dressage on a horse with roped mane—
it looks good if you’re wowed by inane.
It’s the dressage, a beyond bizarre game
with a dancing nag in a douchebag domain.

Dance-dance-dance. . . .

There is no way that the horse runs free. . .
demented choreography.
’round they dance and prance inside a ring;
it’s a horsey, dorky thing.
This locomotion’s dressage; it covers little ground—
unlike racing where horses run
and their hurtling hooves on the hard track pound;
that looks like a whole lot more fun.

You see, he’s into the dressage on a horse with roped mane;
it feels good—free of outsourcing bane.
It’s the dressage, a beyond bizarre game. . .
dandy dancing horse—it’s a show that’s so lame.

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