Tis fall on the prairie <br />a herd of mustangs stands <br />to watch the leaves <br />as they descend <br />in slow angelic dancing steps <br />flaunting rich hues <br />and fresh crisped curls.... <br />a wolf, tail low between hind legs <br />on his way home, <br />but empty fanged, <br />passing a hare <br />frozen with jungle fright <br />oblivious to the birds <br />in barren trees. <br /> <br />Wild Turkeys walk, <br />more than they'd ever fly, <br />they cross clear borders <br />just to see a promised land. <br /> <br />There is a man <br />who's lived here since <br />the peace arrived <br />on the Prairie. <br />Jim Beam's the name <br />and Bourbon is his game. <br /> <br />His beef is not with wolves, <br />or hares, <br />wild mustangs leave him cold, <br />he's picked his private fight <br />with a formidable <br />and silly looking foe. <br /> <br />Wild Turkey, yes, <br />he's beaten Mister Beam <br />back when the General, <br />at Little Big Horn lost, <br />as well, <br />he's always partial to <br />the other side.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich 2<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-big-horn/
