“Who am I?” the harlequin repeated.

A fancy flick of their black and white mane.

“Is myself not worthy to be greeted?”

They softly asked, with vehemence to gain;

“I am not some common old horse.

Remember this well, you fool of a toad,

I’m not patient as a matter of course,

And you speak up like this, making me slowed.

If in future me you try to delay,

Beware of the fact you make me a foe.

I loathe those that try to get in my way.

To borrow some words (hear my anger grow),

I will ask you but one, who are you

To yell at this one, the Jezebel true?”