The Old Horse in the City

The moon's a peck of corn. It lies

Heaped up for me to eat.

I wish that I might climb the path

And taste that supper sweet.

Men feed me straw and scanty grain

And beat me till I'm sore.

Some day I'll break the halter-rope

And smash the stable-door,

Run down the street and mount the hill

Just as the corn appears.

I've seen it rise at certain times

For years and years and years.