LANGUAGE OF THE HORSES (Bear Hearted)
On the outside of town down a little side track,
Lived a man and his horses in a makeshift shack.
He held his big red neck and a cold black heart,
He fought for fun and drank his whiskey from a jar.
Worked long days on a pure dirt farm,
A lot night’s spent fiddling’ out in the barn.
With his crooked hornpipe and a sour mash stew,
He played like the Devil and he howled at the moon.
In the stalls all freshly bedded and hay for one and all,
Draught horses stood in silence a midst their master’s songs.
Their temperament was mighty as exhibited each year in the fall,
As the county folks travelled to wonder in their awe,
With bridle silver harnesses, black leather matched their coats,
Three teams of midnight darkness stood gleaming in the sun.
His six-foot stance beside them made seven ancient beasts,
The thunder of the horse’s hooves was an echo of his voice.
The tartan shield was adorned on the forehead of each steed,
And on his massive fingers three rings of golden knots.
Each one was empowered with the spirit of the beasts,
And with his ancient languages and barking of commands,
The steeds would perform in symmetry a beauty to behold,
Or rise up striking earthquakes on his whispered breath so cold.
With long black robe, riding boots matching hat, his beard in braid,
He spoke the gypsy tongue they said but no one knew his name.
His father had been a clansman; he lost his mother as they came,
On a schooner out of Glasgow they sailed working for the crew.
Mother took the fever on the third day out; on day eleven they blessed her soul,
And to the sea she went to rest, he stood there with his father proud.
No tears were shown in their remorse but bitter tongues were bit,
Her loss was the entire world to him; no love could take her place.
So when they finally homesteaded in this new frontier and land,
They built a little father down the often trodden path.
His dream of having came here for were now master and his son,
He schooled the boy until his death, one cold winter moonlit night.
So now he knew the power of the ancients mysteries, the language
Of the horses and the voices… of his knotted rings and amulets.
© Dirk 9/4/2006 7:37:47 PM BARQUE & BYTE MUSIC
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dpstew55 / Blog
Bear Hearted by Dirk Dillinger Stewart
LANGUAGE OF THE HORSES (Bear Hearted) On the outside of town down a little side track, Lived a man and his horses in a makeshift shack. He held his big red neck and a cold black heart, He fought for fun and drank his whiskey from a jar. Worked long days on a pure dirt farm, A lot night’s spent fiddling’ out in the barn. With his crooked hornpipe and a sour mash stew, He played like the Devil and he howled at the moon. In the stalls all freshly bedded and hay for one and all, Draught horses stood in silence a midst their master’s songs. Their temperament was mighty as exhibited each year in the fall, As the county folks travelled to wonder in their awe, With bridle silver harnesses, black leather matched their coats, Three teams of midnight darkness stood gleaming in the sun. His six-foot stance beside them made seven ancient beasts, The thunder of the horse’s hooves was an echo of his voice. The tartan shield was adorned on the forehead of each steed, And on his massive fingers three rings of golden knots. Each one was empowered with the spirit of the beasts, And with his ancient languages and barking of commands, The steeds would perform in symmetry a beauty to behold, Or rise up striking earthquakes on his whispered breath so cold. With long black robe, riding boots matching hat, his beard in braid, He spoke the gypsy tongue they said but no one knew his name. His father had been a clansman; he lost his mother as they came, On a schooner out of Glasgow they sailed working for the crew. Mother took the fever on the third day out; on day eleven they blessed her soul, And to the sea she went to rest, he stood there with his father proud. No tears were shown in their remorse but bitter tongues were bit, Her loss was the entire world to him; no love could take her place. So when they finally homesteaded in this new frontier and land, They built a little father down the often trodden path. His dream of having came here for were now master and his son, He schooled the boy until his death, one cold winter moonlit night. So now he knew the power of the ancients mysteries, the language Of the horses and the voices… of his knotted rings and amulets. © Dirk 9/4/2006 7:37:47 PM BARQUE & BYTE MUSIC
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