|
He comes over a hillrise
at a trot, his Pinto
reined tight.
He sits straight, yet
we know his age,
some cough and look at
the ground by their feet.
Someday this will all
be ours - he must know that.
Our dynasty is yet to come
his - past,
not glorious, just finished.
When I look up he stands
before me, mottled skin
small biceps of no force
a wicked man
falling to his end.
Praise be to God
from whom all blessings
flow.
|
![[logo: Kansas Heritage Group]](../heritage.gif){kind=small}