Old Trigger

Trigger was a plow horse

Who, seldom saw a saddle.

I was just a big kid

Who rarely rode a straddle.

I lived in the city,

Away from field and barn.

When school was out I’d visit

Old Trigger on the farm.

I thought I’d try and ride him,

And made a split-bit bridle.

I knew it might not stop him,

But hoped it’d make him idle.

Uncle Barney’s saddle

Was split right down the middle.

It was old, the leather dry,

The cinch strap cracked and brittle.

I saddled Trigger, led him round

Beside an old steel drum.

I stood on top and jumped aboard

He snorted, bucked, and spun.

The summer sun was brutal

Old Trigger soon lost steam.

He plodded down the gravel road,

At plowing pace it seemed.

I tried to make him pick up speed

With kick, and click, and whistle.

Then I turned him toward the barn

And he became a missile.

I rocked back and grabbed the horn,

Pulled hard on cotton reins.

But Trigger galloped faster

As he barreled down the lane.

The barn loomed large before us.

He stopped just past the door.

I became a yard dart,

Flying headfirst to the floor.

When I regained my senses

I made this observation:

That you shouldn’t ride a plow horse

For fun or transportation.

Dennis Price