BALLAD OF A BLIZZARD

'Twas the middle of December,
On the eve' before Christmas
Did we hear a whinny that louder
Did grow, as we approached the barn door.

Inside on the floor, 'pon the hay and moss
Lay a tiny thing, the most beautiful horse.
"Blizzard, " we chose to call him -
A name I chose upon a whim.

Blizzard grew up to be tall 'n' strong
Very much unlike the storm
In the middle of which he was born.
Blizzard was something, he was fed on corn.

As a young 'un, he raced about
My Father's fields and about
A track as an old 'un;
And the Media said, "As quick as him, there is n'ne."

Not his, but 'twas the Jockey's ego that grew,
For he was proud to race a horse that flew.
We didn't worry as he was in good hands,
But dare we leave that to chance?

And as chance had it, on the big race
Day, the Jockey drove Blizzard hard
And the poor horse - he fell on his face.
Soon after, we received many a card...

Blizzard, my favourite, beloved horse -
He'd broken his neck as he fell on the course.
Unable to rise, so my Father, the best,
Suspected; the horse was put to rest.

Soon after, Blizzard was buried where he was born,
There in the barn, among the fields of corn.
And every blizzard, we remember him by
With a smile and a tear in the eye.

This was the ballad of Blizzard the horse
A good being, unlike the prickly gorse.
Every great being has a quick end -
The same with Blizzard, my good friend.