The Apple of My Ire, or, When a Long Face Becomes a Big Head
The talking horse spoke loud and clear:"These apples will not do.
The Granny Smiths are much too green,
The Galas hard to chew.
The Red Delicious? All are bruised;
The Fuji are too small.
The Braeburns need to ripen some —
Return them to my stall.
The bitter MacIntosh is out.
The Ortleys hurt my throat.
The Sturmer Pippin aren't quite there.
I don't like Rusty Coat."
"You spoiled horse!" I told the mare,
"I've had enough of you!
So you're a talking horse — so what?! —
I'll sell you off for glue!"
She nudged my ear and gently whined,
"I know you never would,"
But from her change in gait I knew
She wondered if I could.
She took an Ortley from the pile
And, though it made her wince,
She chewed it up and smiled and I
Have had no problems since.