My Take
DiVoran Lites
Horse trader come down the draw
in a boil of red-powder dust.
I saw he had three stallions,
and own that one, I must.
“I’ll take the paint;” I say,
it looks like he’s got soul.
The mare’s in the corral.
Next year we’ll have a foal.
“You keep an eye on him.” the trader says.
“He’s mustang through and through,
a wild one from the range.
Foal next year? Maybe two.
You need to jaw around these parts.
It’s all that makes life fun.
“You’ve got fine boys and pups,” he said.
The trader wasn’t done.
“My little `un,” says I, “he’s four.”
My boys are twins—them two
I can’t keep clean clothes on them,
Nor even one will wear a shoe.
Old Things R New 