The wooden horses
are tired of their courses
and plead from head to hoof
to be fed to a stove
In leaping lunging flames
they’ d rise again, flared manes
snapping like chains behind them.
The smoke would not blind them
as do these children’ s hands:
beyond our cruel commands
the fire will free them then
as once the artisan when
out of the tree they
were nagged to this neigh.