Poem By Nicholas Harrison
The child was kicked by the red pony.
Maybe it was justified, or maybe it was spite,
But the child became a thief,
And painted the pony on the boat.
And all they could find of him, were his grits.
No one said it was right.
Are we to judge if it was right?
No one cared for the pony,
Except that it smelled of grits.
But there was still spite,
Because many cared for the boat,
And so they titled him a thief.
And what happened to the thief?
For many years no one knew which answer was right.
Some thought he took the boat,
Others thought he rode the pony.
So out of spite,
They went to the docks, and threw off his grits.
They sank to the bottom, those moldy grits,
For no one honored the missing thief.
True, they had much spite,
But to them, it felt right.
And no one looked for the pony,
And no one looked for the boat.
Years later at a nearby harbor, a boat,
With the smell of grits,
And the remains of a pony,
Was found along with the thief.
So they killed him, they said it was right.
But was it just out of spite?
We now all know what dug his grave: smite.
Sold was the stolen boat,
They made a good deal, the price was right.
Every child still enjoys their grits,
So there will always be another thief,
And another lost pony.
Later, when time’s spite took its toll on the grave of the thief,
There were no more stories of grits or of ponies.
And everything right, set sail with the boat.