Small Victory
You've no business buying a mare like that, but buy her if you must."
He bit the end off his cigar and spat it in the dust.
"She's old and lame and barren, too
She's not worth feed and hay
But I'll give you this," - he blew smoke at me -
"She was something in her day."
"I recall her well ten years ago; she was a winner in her prime.
She was fast and lean and willing, but they raced her past her time.
And though she had the heart, her legs were gone,
And it wasn't hard to see, they kept her at it
In the hopes of just one more small victory."
"She was shunted Œround from track to track, from Kentucky up to Maine.
They'd run her in cheap claimers, all doped up to mask her pain.
And it it's my advice you ant I'd say, the poor thing's had her day
You'd be throwing good cash after bad. It's best you turn away."
Well they led her Œround the auction shed, and the bidding started low.
"She'll go for dog food," someone said, "the market's been that slow."
But she raised her head and p****ed her ears, and before the hammer fell,
She was mine.
My friend turned Œround to me "You're soft-headed I can tell."
But she's been shoved from pillar to post," said I, "And always done her best.
They used her up, they wrung her dry; you'd think she'd earned a rest.
So if she does not naught but end her days beneath some shady tree,
I'll have saved her from the knacker's yard, and that's enough for me."
Well, that was near two years ago, she's filled out some since then.
The more so since she's been in foal, she eats enough for ten.
And this morn as I crept to the barn around Œbout half past three,
There stood nursing on still trembling legs, one more small victory.
You've no business buying a mare like that, but buy her if you must."
He bit the end off his cigar and spat it in the dust.
"She's old and lame and barren, too
She's not worth feed and hay
But I'll give you this," - he blew smoke at me -
"She was something in her day."
"I recall her well ten years ago; she was a winner in her prime.
She was fast and lean and willing, but they raced her past her time.
And though she had the heart, her legs were gone,
And it wasn't hard to see, they kept her at it
In the hopes of just one more small victory."
"She was shunted Œround from track to track, from Kentucky up to Maine.
They'd run her in cheap claimers, all doped up to mask her pain.
And it it's my advice you ant I'd say, the poor thing's had her day
You'd be throwing good cash after bad. It's best you turn away."
Well they led her Œround the auction shed, and the bidding started low.
"She'll go for dog food," someone said, "the market's been that slow."
But she raised her head and p****ed her ears, and before the hammer fell,
She was mine.
My friend turned Œround to me "You're soft-headed I can tell."
But she's been shoved from pillar to post," said I, "And always done her best.
They used her up, they wrung her dry; you'd think she'd earned a rest.
So if she does not naught but end her days beneath some shady tree,
I'll have saved her from the knacker's yard, and that's enough for me."
Well, that was near two years ago, she's filled out some since then.
The more so since she's been in foal, she eats enough for ten.
And this morn as I crept to the barn around Œbout half past three,
There stood nursing on still trembling legs, one more small victory.