He’s got a burr under his saddle,
And it makes him grumpy by himself
And with the other horses.
And on that rare occasion when
He is not distracted from it
By the routine goings-on of life,
And when ignoring it just doesn’t work,
And when he finds it dissatisfying to
Hypothesize that he was “just born this way”,
He does venture from time to time
To turn his attention to pinpointing the thing
And getting it out once and for all.
And now that he’s thinking about it,
He must admit that it does seem
That maybe somebody ought to be able
To get the saddle and blanket off
And find the damned thing at long last
And brush it out.
And wouldn’t that be something?
