The huntsman's secret

I'm a huntsman doughty and proud, Blowing on my horn so loud, Performing to the following crowd, Whilst pretending I'm well endowed. Robust in gut, and ruddy in face, After foxes I love to chase, Last week we killed a brace, But my genitals are a disgrace. I wear a Pink from Dege and Skinner, My tailor advises I should be thinner, But I love a full roast dinner, Secrets, knows he, of my thighs inner. My tailor's eyes I will blast, If he continues to lambaste, My stomach vast, And my testicles easlity surpassed. I ride as whipper in for the master, Cracking lewd jokes with the Pastor. He believes one rides faster, If one's crotch is a disaster. And right he is for my cock's lilliputian, I fear I moved too fast for evolution, At last I have found the needed solution, A prostethic papier mache substitution. As slow as the Pastor I now ride, And stroll once again with pride, For in my jodphurs does reside, A full sized papier mache girl guide.