When My Horse Dies

Her name is Chi-Town,
A strawberry roan,
She’s about twenty four,
Horses live to about thirty five
So there is some time to plan,
Will it be sad when she goes?
Not really,
I never cottoned up to horses that much,
Where she drops is where she drops,
Like the Godfather
We’ll make her an offer she can’t refuse,
Set up a TV in the pasture where she lies,
Play her Buñuel/Dali’s An Andalusian Dog,
Beat off the buzzards,
Contemplate the putrefaction
Of decomposing bodies,
Beat the drum slowly
While singing St. James Infirmary Blues,
When the neighbors complain
We’ll chant in half-tones,
“Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s!”
Tell them it’s an art project
Before we pass out from huffing glue.