I sometimes think, with great remorse,
How sad it is to be a horse.
Tabby, the cat, is a cute little thing,
Happy at play with a tattered old string,
And Spotty, the dog, sticks his tongue in your face,
But the poor old horse has to run in a race
Or they join him to a heavy cart,
As if the horse possessed no heart,
And pile a lot of junk on him,
Until he aches from head to limb.
The horse, not loved like other pets,
Is mainly used for carts or bets,
But no one ever seems to care
About the thoughts of some old mare.
