The Last Ride of the Wee Yeasty Rider

We've been writing intentionally bad poetry for many years now, but have only recently begun to impose restrictions on content and form. Today, we challenged ourselves to write a 12-line poem containing:

1. racehorses

2. recent evolutionary developments

3. a German literary reference

Below is the result. If the requirements strike your fancy, please, send us your own interpretation!

Ezmerelda's hooves beat the track like a baker kneading challah

Magnificent flanks, but zero propulsion

it mattered little to her rider, who had ceased

himself to grow (before Ezmerelda was born) at the age of 3.

But Jörg was not small, only highly evolved

the hats were being made smaller and smaller, you see.

And his blond hair grew brighter, like challah

The aristocrats in the stands yawned away their educations

tragic, when neurons give way to wee yeasty riders

rising to such proportions only to be beaten down again

This was what was running last through her synapses, Ezmerelda,

as her hooves under Jörg's direction left the track, the cliff -- to death.