I first heard him walkin’, crunching cold morning snow,

He sees me and trots off, he don’t understand “woah.”

The ice balls rattle on his hairy fetlock,

And my thoughts wander back to last night’s bar talk.

Last night it was warm in the bar room aswarm,

Where my offer to help out was accepted with glee,

For the price of my presence was a stake horse you see.

But right now it’s cold out and it’s just him and me,

And there’s a whole lot of places that I’d rather be.

He hardly takes the slack out once he’s been roped,

He’s bigger and older and stronger than I’d hoped.

The answer lies hidden between tough and luck,

And we all will soon find out: is he bluff or buck.

I maybe can’t ride him but I dam sure won’t walk,

So here goes my best effort to back up that bar talk.