Das folgende Gedicht habe ich 1994 am Lagerfeuer in
Australien aus der handschriftlichen Kladde des Headstockman abgeschrieben.
Sollte jemand wissen, wer der ursprüngliche Autor war: Her mit der Info.

White In The Eye You don´t like the lift of it´s quarter, You don´t like the look in it´s eye, You´ve been told he´s a regular snorter And throws himself into the sky. You hope when outside you can hold him - They say he´s a beggar to bolt - And you curse the old beggar who foaled him "A rough and unridable colt". You look at your boots and are brought to Make choice in a matter of doubt To ride him with spurs as you´re ought to Or ride him, more safely, without. You´re glad, that the yard is not wider And thankful the timbers are tall And wish you were more of a rider With not so much chance of a fall You check the length of your leathers And pull up the slack of his girth And you wish for a yard full of feathers Instead of this hard trodden earth.

Then, dammning the lads on the fences, Who grin as they wish you good luck And are scaring you out of your senses With "Mind you, this beggar can buck!" Assuming an attitude bolder You scorn indecision and fear And take up your place at his shoulder And get a good grip of his ear (?) And telling yourself you can boss him Thought doubtfull, it must be confessed You swing a leg gently across him And sit back and hope for the best! ...............................

.

.

Home

.

.

.

.

.

.

.