(My experience with Bogey, a hard working, gentle, log skidding Clydesdale horse.)
A storm is coming in fast
and –well—you waited too long to get off that mountain.
You put the single tree on a stump,
hook up Bogey's traces and your off to the races.
All you can think about is that little air stream in that grove of quackies
with a nice warm fire in the stove
So you cut across the switchbacks
It’s a shortcut you think your takin’
It's not more than a mile to the bottom
But that last mile can be a mover and a shaker
a downright widow maker
The wind is cutting deep
and the ground's already frozen
The snow just won't stop falling
Then he slips when he steps
He's nervous and he's balking
You can't go sideways and
you can't get down and walk him
You better turn straight to the bottom
and hope your both not falling
So that's what you do –and
you hit the road with a sigh and a snort
A sigh from you who should of know-ed it!
A snort from him who already did!