Mary Pratt was a fine lass
who had all the accoutrements
one could desire.
To a colt the dressage was a bit much,
the bows and pretense too.
But as the sands began to filter through
the aperture narrowed and began to coalesce.
It was time to reassess this whole emotional mess.
Now the clock struck ten P.M. far too soon
and clearing throats resounded,
this adventure to another day
another time.
Old Mary now still waits,
hurry horse, no time yet to imagine.
