Every morning
At the crack of dawn
The old Indian man
Rode his pinto along

The horse was splashed
With the dark of night
Then crept upon
By the snowiest white

With one green eye,
The other brown
His pinto was
The talk of the town

So the men rose early
And dashed into the street
To see the Indian
With quiet discreet

So in trying to find
Some morning peace
The man had created
Crowded grief

The quest of course was
And old Indian man
In thought and manner
And in the works of his hand

They say he headed
To a different town
They say he didn’t like
The talk going round

So, if you see this pair
Cladding down your lane
Don’t make a bid deal of it
Or your efforts will be in vain

Instead, enjoy it with
The Indian way
Watch them in secret-
Hiding from the light of day