The Black Stallion

I work these seas

high above

the wicked spirit of the deep

with my not so Jolly Roger

held high.

 

They say the bottom of the ocean

far from the dry land

that I deplore

is Davy Jones' locker.

 

It was a sunny day

with a deep blue sky

when my love and I were walking alone

upon that country road

I know I'll never see again.

 

That's where we came upon

the black stallion.

He charged up to us and halted

without a rider or a saddle,

no reigns, without a bit

no, nothing but his shiny black coat

and brush-like mane.

 

My love said, “Watch,

I can ride him.”

I said, “You better not.”

But before I could say another thing

she pulled herself upon his back,

gave a kick, and yelled, “Haw!”

He stood up high and galloped off.

 

Now, I had to wonder

where he took my love

so I ran after them.

 

It seemed a mile

that my burning feet had gone

when I stopped to catch my breath.

Then, there, along the side of the road

among some rocks, I saw my love,

and the blood flowing from

the beautiful brunet hair on her head.

 

So, now I toil

far from that country road

and the black stallion

who stalks young lovers.

That’s why

I work these seas,

high above

the wicked spirit of the deep.