My gut tells me to stop
this trot, to rest
and eat the flake. But I am
not bomb-proof. When my bridle
is pulled too quick,
I turn rogue. I can only
carry so much on this back
of mine, and though I so
want to be the easy keeper, I can't
if you make me bear every
backbiting comment this herd
neighs. So please, give me room
above the bit and eventually
I'll be less barn sour.
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