Dead in the barn lies the mare of a man
too proud to let sorrow settle.
And when he puts down his bottle,
do you think he’ll recall
how far he has come
in falling short of things?
With owed respect
was the equine perplexed
with how master justified her passing?
Memories lost are just a drink away,
so make it stiff as a horse.
A horse, you know,
of course, come morning.
Grain ferments in mangers or barrels.
Grasp any connection you can
while it’s cold out there
and she can keep on lying before she swells.
Could you ever swell with pride again?