The moons a peck of corn. It lies
Heaped up for me to eat.
I wish that I might climb the path
And taste that supper sweet.
Men feed me straw and scanty grain
And beat me till Im sore.
Some day Ill break the halter-rope
And smash the stable-door,
Run down the street and mount the hill
Just as the corn appears.
Ive seen it rise at certain times
For years and years and years.
