He Wants His Horse To Win

You just have to win, Good Steed! Do I say the Angel’s Creed? Eyes to be on your praised speed, Often mind me and strokes heed, Flying like you had smoked weed, At speed betraying mind of greed… You don’t talk of losing, Steed; I’ll fetch you your choicest bead, Have you in richest field feed; Above foals treasure your seed… In do-or-die affairs lead, A win like air I need, Not shuddering like a reed; When goes the shot your win read... Means, then, my poor heart shall bleed And blood hypertension breed, If something should make my Steed Forget supersonic speed…