A HORSE CALLED QRAC
I used to have a horse called Qrac,
If you kissed him, he’d kiss you back.
He’d pucker up, roll back his lips
His smooch it was the very best.
I saw him on the Internet,
Being ridden in some sort of test,
A Portuguese, Lusitano.
That set my body all aglow.
Thick mane, long tail, completely black,
With almond eyes and a short back.
I watched his video hundreds of times,
But never thought he could be mine.
Until one day with Marie-V,
A random horse we went to see.
Some Portuguese, we didn’t know,
That much about him, we just drove.
A little stable in Provence,
Lines of Cremelos with pink eyes,
And then suddenly at the back,
A gorgeous horse, completely black!
My heart stood still, was black beauty,
The one from my computer screen?
“What is his name? I think I know…”
“His name is Qrac, Qrac de la Font.”
Of all the horses all over France!
How could it be, what sort of chance
To find the one I’d seen online
Certain he never could be mine?
To Switzerland I brought him back,
And started training this young chap.
It wasn’t easy, he was sharp,
He’d spin and buck and sometimes rear.
I taught that horse so many things,
And dressed him up in lots of bling.
Swarovski diamonds for Qracipoo
On numnahs, bandages, browbands too.
Qrac’s favourite thing wasn’t dressage,
What he loved best was a massage.
Under warm lights, with a machine
Called Equissage, his dopamine.
We went to shows, they weren’t his thing,
(Or maybe it was actually me?)
Our scores were crap, we’d both get scared,
I don’t know why, it was absurd.
We placed just once, in Cluny, France,
Came second in medium advanced.
We did a freestyle, made a mess,
To a song by Robbie Williams!
I never cared that much for shows,
I only really liked the clothes!
The black jacket, the jodhpurs white,
The shiny boots and clean white gloves.
I’d rather practise moves at home,
Ride for fun and take lessons.
Or go on horsey holidays,
With my friend Joelle, to Saint Tropez!
We’d stay a week, have crazy times,
With Qracipoo and Umbrella,
We called ourselves the Blingadas,
And drank plenty of champagne!
We smuggled wine, white and rosé
Under smelly numnahs, how osé!
The customs men they were hoodwinked,
They didn’t want to sniff that stink!
It’s hard to think about those days,
Without fat teardrops in my eyes.
A little lump forms in my throat…
Horses are so hard to let go.