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My name will be Beauty Thunder

When I come back I will be a warhorse Twenty one hands high I will ignore my mistress, taking no direction. I will run toward the valley Where I will be free with no bridle or saddle Thundering through, amazing other creatures. My coat of many colors will dazzle the mares. I will be a stallion Well hung, and proud Unless I choose to be Irish-setter red. Irish setter red might be the best. Then I could blend in with autumn and the fire sky. My name will be Beauty Thunder I will be followed by magnificent faeries And sneaky, mean elves will despise me, Putting raisins in my oat bucket. Yes, I will return to my mistress's stable in the evening To have a formidable bucket of oats. I am not a hillbilly after all. And I love running water, I will win the Triple Crown twice, Showing up all the other horses. Yet with no training at all. None can break me. For I break myself, Always in charge Even as a warhorse.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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