Little pony in a little pink paddock,
Gazing at the moon, he says,
“What kind of moon are you?”
And the grass is dark and dreamy
And the stars are singing madly,
As the pony in the paddock stands and stares.
And the trees sway black on
The shadowed banks,
The river rolls in paper pocket swirls.
Keeping his eyes on the horizon,
See the pony dance,
His curling mane tossing to the night.
His sharp hooves pounding in the night.
The night makes not a sound, he knows he is the king
Of this small circle, circus dreams and patchwork seams,
Light blue luminescence,
A gypsy saddle blanket, he discards.
Come again some other night,
He’ll be chatting to the skies,
And the stars will be staring at his eyes.