The Bridle Path JUNE
9TH, 2012
by
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.
JUNE 9TH, 2012
