Goofy

He'll look in the face of a thirty-yard grizzly
and raise not a hackle nor hair.
But the dart of a squirrel or a grouse on the trailside
can cause him to dance on the air.

And he'll try you sometimes in the mist of the mornin'
just to see if your hat's screwed on tight.
Tell me, dear friends, how he knows near for certain
we'd a goin' away party the previous night.

Well, as friends do, I probably harp on his bad side
but ya' all know that ain't half the truth.
If I put my mind down to listin' his good points
I could probably burn up my youth.

Like the fact that he'll power from can see to can't see
and the mountains don't mean a damned thing.
I can let him graze loose on the grass of Long Meadow
while some purebloods get tied to a string.

Don't he know all the trails, can't he see in the dark,
ain't there a map to each camp in his head?
Don't he get only oats at the end of each day
while I reap the brown points in his stead?

I really can't say who's a horseman,
a breeder, a trainer, a seer
Do Dorance or Braynard or Hunt have the answers?
That question will long hang, I fear.

I only know that we fit well together,
a well-oiled hand in a glove.
Some people might say that I've trained him to pieces
but we know he does it from love.

So what if he is just a little bit goofy,
and he fits just a bit on the rim?
That really don't matter a whole lot to me folks,
'cause I'm a whole lot like him.