In the old days, ponies were painted with color,
And we met the quarry with vigorous valor.
Now, we chase fast food burger in enameled car,
And bravely parade our prowess with tattooed scar.
In the old days, we lived in a tribal circle,
And sang bright song rhythmic and musical.
Today, we lisp a pathetic soliloquy
And desperately long for community.
Our heroic voice of individualism
Is captive like Clint in emotional prison.
One day, solar sons and daughters will arise,
And the hearts and minds of cowards surprise.
Darvish longs for painted pony and warrior
To regale the White Horse Avatar as savior.