Midnight Ride of William Dawes
"I'll go left, you go right," said the man upon his horse.
"You scream to the world, I'll defend liberty," exclaimed the other with eyes so clear.
And off they went, two separate ways; one of gold and one of bronze.
The black horse, the white horse, the green horse, the gold horse.
The shimmer like prizes or grotesque beasts.
One filled of praise, the other blended like night.
Green eyed monster stares at the white in fright.
Now there's fire, skim the sky.
Kissing stars; orbs don't kiss back.
Anger in eyes, but tears fall down.
These colors are dying, and soon all will be gray.
"I returned from the right," the other cheered.
"My left turn kept me in silence, and a horse was shot from the rear," the man complained.
And up came the marching men, guns in hand. War seems to be a aristocrat's best friend.
One praised as an angel above.
One ignored, a buffer of them all.
One black horse, always condemned,
Welcome, welcome, world's best friends.