The Wise Man
Smokey, the old wise man
Walking through the mead
On a gloomy-cloud day,
I met an old wise man
By the path a little way.
He had a mane of tufty white
And tick-bites on his skin.
He had pools for solemn eyes of black
And bristly whiskers on his chin.
I asked the wise man many things,
But not a word he said.
Yet occasionally he would prick his ears
And tilt his old grey head.
So enlightmentless but much relieved
I left with a carrot and farewell,
Hoping very much to return to that place
In which the wise man does dwell.
You see, I’ve always like ponies best
As your secrets they never tell.
They just keep them locked up so safe
In a small and furry shell.