This is a thank you to all the thoroughbreds in all the world.
Full of grace and kind of eye,
You'd stop to look as he went by,
Gentle with those girls of ours,
Who sat astride him midst the flowers.
To be sure I must tell true,
And give the picture whole to you,
Joey wasn't quite a saint,
Though there's little room for complaint.
He'd never bite or kick or buck,
But did enjoy a crafty suck,
Upon a rail, a post or gate,
'Specially when his tea was late.
He'd sometimes knock a rail (or two),
Transitions didn't come quite true,
He'd been known to trip on grass,
And never mastered the half pass.
But power on, pick up the pace,
Trigger memories of the race,
Horse and rider fused as one,
Is how he's remembered now he's gone.
Some say, "He's just a horse you know!"
They obviously never knew - Our Joe.