Me and Flynt were tradin’ horses when the thought occurred to us
We could start ourselves a business. After all, who can you trust
If you can’t trust an ol’ trader who’s never held a job.
That’s high praise in certain circles where the idle poor hob nob.
“We should print some stationery, buy a rabbit’s foot for luck,
Put an ad up at the sale barn, paint our motto on the truck,
‘All things that smell like horse manure, all creatures part equinal,
All spotted horses cost you more, of course, all sales are final.
We’ll need to start a check account to lend ourselves repute.”
I stopped Flynt’s grand oration to point out we’re destitute.
“Ol’ son,” he sagely said to me, “We must appear successful.
If we don’t walk the rooster walk, we’ll never fill our nest full.”
In eight days time, our empire built, I calmly manned the phone,
Sharpened pencils, straightened horseshoes and played checkers all alone.
No one called except Rotarians inviting us to join
When Flynt drove up a draggin’ this ol’ trailer he’d purloined.
I rushed outside and helped my pard unwire the tail gate.
He was grinnin’ like a twelve-year-old about to flatulate.
“Our first big trade!,” he bragged to me. “The start of our first million!” The horse backed out and my first thought was he looked somehow reptilian.
His ears had froze off near his head, his legs bowed like a lizard,
His back was humped, when he stepped out his gait severely scizzored.
He couldn’t walk a straight line true and his tail drug the ground
So a tracker’d think a herd of kangaroos had passed through town.
His head looked like a chest of drawers, his lower lip a shovel
And from the spur tracks on his side I knew he might be trouble.
“Got him for a song,” he said, “A bargain as sure as I live.”
“So, Flynt,” I said, “I’m curious, just what did you have to give?”
He turned to me, “A check,” he said. His eyes went kinda funny.
“Well,” said I, “I’ll give you this, you sure got him worth the money.”
For more from this cowboy poet, visit BaxterBlack.com.
