The Smith scratches his bald head

and sighs, exasperated it seems

by the famer’s

and the village’s

lack of understand his point,

that the horse is lame

and needs to be destroyed.

Why shoe a horse good only good for glue

He asks with arrogance in his voice,

educated not for the betterment of

those who seek his service,

but confrontational, weak livered

but full of supposed moral superiority.

He pays no heed to the cries and objections

that the horse can still provide a means

and that it is only lame because

the Smith, fat faced, Chingford knows,

kept on kicking it, put a gun to its head

and decided it hated it

as he put his melting pot hands,

covered in the grease of money gained,

all over his black overall suit;

what a day to be alive,

shoot the horse,

it will save us all money.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017