The Cybersybils Present : 1001 Spanish Riding School Delights

One-Thousand-and-One
Spanish Riding School
Delights

An amazonne was put to test:
Is man or horse forsooth the best
To mount when seeking pleasure fair?
This query was resolved with care,
Requiring two long days of thought,

An answer that could not be bought
With flippant words or curling lip,
Or flash of crop with which to tip,
The scales of Justice pro or con...
A verdict was not reached till dawn.

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"The court will find," said Mystress O,
"For solid evidence alone does show,
That man is still the better beast
To celebrate Life's moveable feast;
No saddle, bridle or a bit

Might grant a Lady better fit,
Than one pure knight's imposing lance
When tilted at the proper prance;
And all of Christendom will sing
When Mary's Queen and Easa's King."

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"What sacriledge!" the Church decried,
"To jest that God's own Son did ride
Upon the back of Babylon's whore!
How dare might heretic sin a-more?"

The excommunication came post haste
For Rome a minute could not waste,
When damning to the flames of Hell
An amazonne with tale to tell,
Especially of the sordid kind,
Whose moral leaves a stain on mind.

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"Since branded rebel's Triple X,
This vixen shall the Vatican vex,"
Miss O declared, and then repaired,
To her fine study, where she dared,
A survey of the Court of Love,

Those goodly Mages whose fine blood,
Was offered up as pedigree
To Peyton lass of booted knee -
The Spanish Riding School elite -
The only Satyrs O would seat.

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One thousand was the Golden Mean
By which this Lady meant to glean,
The measure of a goodly gait,
No equine portrait did not rate,
She searched them all again, and more,

While stretched out on the library floor,
The books and tomes were stacked a mile:
Velasquez, Rubens in that pile,
Yet, O was diligent and true:
Her homework she did not eschew.

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The hunt began in Rome, by luck,
For from Historia's file she pluck'd,
Aurelius, Marcus on his steed;
"Now that wise knight was fine, indeed,"

Miss O did sigh, then shook her head,
Remembering that old Marc was dead.
"Still, I'll press on, compile the list,
By which all ladies will insist
Their swains be judged, and rightly just...
An Ivanhoe who's fit for lust."

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A for Aurelius, Rome's own son,
Then B, whose fame is surely won
By Benozzo Gozzoli, whose Magi,
Elicit more than one mere sigh...

Ah, then, though Charles the First did fall,
His posture rates a booty call,
Yet fun aside, for D is here -
And Dirck by Potter would appear,
A haughty chap, a pleasant romp,
If Mystress on his back did stomp!

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The E must go to Etienne,
Whose Petro Primo, czar of men,
Does grace a square in Leningrad,
More noble Kozak is not had;
We ought to skip to Stanislas,
By David, that's a worthy cause;

Yet, keeping to the course that's set,
For F there's not a better bet,
Than Frederick, and the great, we hear,
Applies to Bamberg's Gothic peer.

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To Gericault, we do bow down,
True painter of equine renown,
He gave his life for hoof and mane,
A sacrifice made not in vain;
His name was blessed Théodore:
And while this Saint we do adore,

Perhaps 'tis sign from up above,
That no true throne of Courtly Love,
Shall be inscribed with other rank,
Than princely coin of Teuton bank.

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Portents received, Miss O thought long,
And hard, and mighty 'bout a song
Of legend, penned by Tasso's plume,
Of Ruggiero and his lady's doom
Snapped from the grip of deadly beast;

A mythos wrapped in poesie sweet,
An H for Hippocampus of the sea,
God Neptune's steed, or should it be
For Hercules, who did stables clean,
And stole the gird of equine queen?

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The "I" went to the Iron Duke,
Lord Wellington, without peruke;
A "J" for Jordaen's cavaliers most cruel,
The masters of their Riding School;
A "K" was found in Keyser's brush,

A knight named Schout not in a rush,
Meand'ring down a country lane,
A pair of gauntlets on a mane,
His suit was fine, his stirrups, too,
Perhaps Schout rode afield to woo.

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Without a doubt, the "L" reserved,
For King of France forev'r preserved,
As Sun god of the comely face,
Apollo of his age and race,
The only master Versailles knew,

The prince of bright red, buckled shoe;
Regard this proud man made divine,
The fourteenth was a special wine,
And all real men today do slake
Their Bourbon straight, for Louis' sake.

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Newcastle carried many a coal,
To Antwerp, to avoid the goal,
In exile for his King and crown,
A love of riding his renown,
The pupil of Antoine, the Saint,
This Duke did also write and paint,

A volume titled Horse's Dress
That made it to the printing press!
Perhaps his name, Sir Cavendish,
Made ladies' swoon and fillies wish!

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Miss O bestowed her monogram,
On Olivares, Gaspar de Guzman,
Count-Duke and hero of his day,
The artists all their homage pay:
Velasquez, Crayer, Mateos,

In Spain, the Big O was the boss,
Of seventeenth century riding rings,
Of amour fin and other things,
Too naughty to describe in verse,
For tender eyes that aren't peverse.

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Quick to the chase, a "P" for Plu,
Or Pluvinel, whose aim was true;
The "Q" to Quintus, Roman Knight,
Who fought for Christ and all that's right;
Our Rubens wins the letter "R"
For Lerma and his steed just are;

The "S", we're back to Stanislas,
That rider in a special class;
And "T"...well T is intersting, indeed,
The holiest of holy steed.

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Back in the '80s, it is true,
The painter Dali in fact drew,
A map that leads to Holy Grail;
A treasure sent by Cosmic Mail,
To Miss O's ear - if you could hear,
The music of celestial sphere:

San Salvador had picked a knight,
A Galahad, whose shield is bright,
Emblazoned with the Cross of T,
The brother of Persephone.

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With heavy sigh, O moved to "U"
Uccello of the Hawkwood True;
George Villiers, great Duke Buckingham,
A son of Virgo, Queen Anne's lamb,
A Master of the Horse, as well,
So famous, Dumas his true tale did tell;

The Riding School by Wouwerman,
Took art and brought it back to plan;
And Xenophon cannot be beat,
When learning how to sit a seat.

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One might think "Y" would prove a chore,
That letter can be quite a bore,
When making lists at midnight's chime,
But O toiled on and found a rhyme:
Prince Youssoupoff, whose leopard cape,
By Antoine Gros did not escape;

Then on to "Z" a place to stop
With Zuccarelli's pleasant crop,
Of ladies choosing man or beast,
A happy, triple lover's feast.

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By dawn's sweet break, one-thousand men,
Had passed beneath our Mystress' pen;
And when she went upstairs to sleep,
She found awaiting in her keep,
The one she had forgot to book,
A stallion drawn from Raphael's look;

She really hadn't far to go,
Beyond the walls of her Château,
To find the stud one-thousand-one,
A private Spanish Riding School she'd won!

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