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With many miles behind me, And twice that yet to come, I'm shifting in the saddle To change what's getting numb. My mount is striding gently With an ever-present thump, And an ox's share of traveling ware Strapped across her rump. She wasn't bred for swiftness, Though sluggish-slow she ain't; She's rushed me through some canyon trails Where ""quicker"" breeds would faint! She's dragged me 'cross the deserts where I'd swear we both would burn; She's plodded through the drifting snow To bring my safe return. These years she's earned my reverence, So when a stranger bold Suggests to me I sell her soon; ""After all, she's getting old."" I aim that stranger toward the gate And buckshot toward his end; And clarify to one more guy You just don't sell a friend.
Wes Stephenson

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