Classic Poem

Lean, lanky son of desert sage,
Gaunt galloper of mesas,
Speed king of Satan's acreage,
Gray ghost of twilight places,

Long-legged bouncer of the plains,
Long-eared cow country racer,
Pray tell me what your legs contain
That makes you such a chaser?

You're always hungry-looking, thin,
As if with bilious liver,
And yet you're droll as Harlequin,
And far outrun the flivver.

You leap across the trail and scare
My pony with your jumping,
And when you bounce up in the air
The blue sky gets a bumping.

You'd be a cousin to the mule
But for your speedy habit;
You are the frontier's clown and fool,
Though you are called “jack rabbit.”

But say, gaunt racing prairie pest,
There's one good thing about you:
Although you're useless, our old West
Would not be West without you!