OLD PAINT

Old paint weren’t much of a horse.

And as he older and older grew,

He became cantankerous

And as mean as he could be.

He’d bite anyone who mishandled his reins.

When he was being sent out to a farm

To be a plow horse for the rest of his days,

He walked down the road quietly

Until we neared the gate.

There he bounded through like a young ‘un.

Twice around he went with me holdin’ tight

Until the time came to unsaddle him

And take off his reins.

Then he turned his head as if to bite,

But instead he laid that big old head of his

Across my shoulder as if to say, “Thanks.”

I think he winked that crooked eye of his.

#HorsesandMemory #ChildhoodPoetry