Monday, April 21, 2014


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The Bridle Path


James Bredin

The Bridle Path is a fine posh place of big mansion houses,
Where rich folk from Switzerland sometimes stash their spouses.
The lawns are low and weeds don’t grow and the driveways long and curved,
And license plates from New York State can sometimes be observed.

But folk are few, don’t give reviews and the place is so sedate,
But lenses watch the garden gates and hedges hide the real estate,
But if you’re blessed to be a guest you’ll see the tennis courts,
And the girls in white, all sunshine bright, running at their sports.

It was in this fine place that I first perceived Pontius de la Clair,
A gardener and a servant man and a little in despair,
As he stood on a ladder, he seemed quite sadder and clipped the cedar hedge,
And told me about Switzerland and their house on a mountain ledge.

"I should have an electric clippers and a fancy sit-down mower.
"And a long-barreled leaf blower and a sheltered snow thrower.
"We travel the world wherever we like, to Zurich or Madrid,
"I’ve driven the Rolls with all that chrome to his every buyout bid.

I didn’t tell Pontius then, because it took me time to see,
And I didn’t want to pain his pride -- we were both bourgeoisie,
He was a servant and a spectacle, part of the deluxe display
He was a lackey just like me, something serious to convey.