John Henry Poem by Scott Ransopher

You pace the fence with timeless strides of grace.
Along the white slats you are entertained
By dancing patterns of the oak lace.
You own this land that you have been ordained.

You pound the blades of grass with all your might,
As if you want the earth to always know
That racing was your life and your delight.
Sir Henry, aren't you weary from your show?

Now claps are muffled by white linen gloves
And crowds are drunk from sips of gin and mint.
With sober souls stir up the race they loved
Indulging bets on your most graceful sprint?

Fear not, great horse. Your ride won't be in vain.
The fury of your soul forever reigns.