On your high horse, you passed me by,
never heard my voice, its quiet sigh;
never took your eyes off straight ahead,
passed me by, just like I was dead.
You're too high and mighty for my taste,
your upper lip, too stiff, your demeanor, cold;
and now, that I have thought about it,
you are too ****** old.
You were a passing fancy for my mind,
to think you might notice me, was silly;
you were after beauty I could not touch,
so you found yourself a lovely little filly.
I was young and foolish in my dreams,
to picture you and I, as two, together;
you only wanted flesh for satisfaction,
another wasted night of groaning pleasure.
On your high horse, you passed me by,
and lost the chance of me to coarsely ply;
and I laugh as I recall, that stupid, vapid day,
you rode by, not looking, on your merry way.