Free as the wind she stood upon the hill,
for it was told that none could tame the pony from hell.

For days and weeks the best gathered around,
they tried to catch her, they even brought out the hounds.

Still each dusk came she stood upon that hill,
a smirk in her eye remembering the chase and the thrill.

With the sunset cast against her blazing coat
it was this night the stranger in town looked her over from a distance - taking note.

Her mane is as golden as the sun
it whipped about her shoulders displaying her form for more then mere fun.

She was a powerful pony and knew it well
it was how she got her nick name "The Pony From Hell"

For in her eyes a raging fire roared, it was told from town to town
that no man could bring her down.

Upon the winds carried this night a scent to her of one that struck fright, her eyes widened knowing perhaps fate at hand for she had heard rumors about this man.

He was the best, none could compare,
for when he spoke everyone took a seat even if there was no chair.

He was a tall man solid and built,
for upon his hip were the tools to make a pony go tilt.

With a sure stride across the plain
he came within distance of the pony and called out her name.

She looked to the man crouched upon the ground,
her head tossed hard listening to the silence around.

Her hips swished back and forth, a hoof pawed the ground,
yet the man kept his place in the darkness seemingly bound.

With dark eyes fixed upon her again he called her name,
all stood still but the whipping of tail and mane.

He remained low, close to the bladed grass,
for those that watched him thought he was a mere jackass.

The crowd laughed in silence at the man low to the ground,
but he knew within him how to get her to come around.

The hours went by both held their place
until the expression in the eyes changed the look on his face.

His eyes became harder tearing into her soul,
for he was a man and one of control.

There was no beast alive that he could not tame,
for he was more then a man, he certainly was Australian.

No words were said but the whisper of her name,
it was then that he caught the motion of her flaxen mane.

Her head bowed deep and hooved placed firmly to the ground,
she moved toward him listening for sounds.

She heard the call in his heart, saw the demand in his eyes,
she heard him answer quietly all the who, what, where and whys.

Standing before him as quiet as can be,
her form trembled dropping her heavily to her knees.

Still crouched low now eye to eye,
she saw the fate of his answers and knew now it wasn’t just lies.

He reached to his belt and uncoiled the rope; he drew it up carefully to slide it about her throat.

Up and over he weaved the bonds until the sun brought forth the breaking dawn.

Held quietly in a haltered weaved; he led her slowly walking the path beneath the canopy of trees.

Looking over his shoulder with her in tote,
he looked to the crowd giving his final note.

For within his eyes the story is told
of the man who reached "The hellish Pony’s Soul".