There once was a young horse I'll call Wilbur.
He ran with an elan I'll call quick.
Whether chasing the sun or fleeing the darkness
'Twas all of a piece of his schtick.
He ne'er did feel the flick of the switch
Or give his obedience to man.
Solo he flew down the roads of his youth
Both-sided blind and knowing no plan.
The speed was a reduction of hoping
To terms which his hooves could control.
The foam on his flanks and his desperate eyes
Were the rendering of his soul.
But foam was a poor consolation
For ceaselessly running in vain.
His whinnying self-isolation
Brought no certainty, save for the pain.
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