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The Pony To Bet On - text

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Past her prime and put out to pasture,
The ‘pony to bet on’ grows old.
But in her heyday, there was no filly faster,
Until that one fateful winter so cold.

Yeah, all the bookies and betters, never banked on the weather
And that sick December bug in the air.
The points kept on spreadin’ til you called off the wedding
And left me with a tired old gray mare.

Now the ‘pony to bet’ on is the old nag I sit on
Getting drunk in the yard, brushing her hair.
The ‘pony to bet on’, yeah, she’s a sad one
But not as sad as the tears that I shed.

So I walk her to bed,
For that slow, losing final stretch home.
Well this tarnished old loving cup is empty.
The wreaths of roses have withered away.
But the whiskey and the bullets are plenty.
Oh how I wish you were here with us today.

We went from trophies and a Triple,
To pulling hayrides for people in small town parades down to the fair.
The ‘pony to bet on’, well, she’s a sad one, but not as sad as the tears that I shed.
So I walk her to bed… for two losers final stretch home.

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