The Locoed Horse

As I was ridin' all alone
And winkin' in the noontime glare,
I seen a hawse all hide and bone
Walk 'round a willow dead and bare—
Walk 'round and 'round, with limp and groan,
And hunt the shade that wasn't there.
And then says I: 'That sorry steed
Has been and et the loco weed.'

Near by a spreadin' live oak laid
Its wide, cool shadow on the ground,
But then he knowed that willow's shade
Was just a little further 'round
And reckoned, each slow step he made,
That in the next it would be found.
There, like a coon, his thoughts were treed
Since he had et the loco weed.

The water trail went windin' by,
The sweet brown grass furred every slope
And he was ga'nt and starved and dry,
Yet, on his ghostly picket rope
Led 'round and 'round, he still must try
That hopeless circle of his hope.
He didn't think of drink or feed
Since he had et the loco weed.

A playful wild bunch topped the hill
And stared with eyes all impish bright
And whinnered to him sweet and shrill,
Then flung their heads and loped from sight,
Yet from that everlastin' mill
They couldn't make him stray a mite.
He never seen their gay stampede
For he had et the loco weed.

When next that range I had to ride
Beneath his willow tree he lay,
Just wornout hoofs and faded hide
And big black birds that flopped away;
But yet I reckon that he died
Still hopeful—happy—who kin say?
Sometimes I think I mostly need
To eat some sort of loco weed.