I know a man who likes horses,
(of course). But not for riding—
for magic,
for he turns them into money.
Two dollars to twenty. Eight dollars to eighty.
The small men who ride the horses take the pain,
not much the gain, though not much the loss, either.
They ride. Just ride.
Strange, small men, in their strange, small pants.
They do their little dance and my man,
he makes the magic, Presto! . . . or he doesn't;
because truthfully it's
all confidence, no influence.
But that, he has in spades.