He Is Not Dead, He Is Just

Long About Knee-deep In June, 'bout The Time Strewberries Melts On The Vine.

I Love The Horse From Hoof To Head. From Head To Hoof And Tail To Mane. I Love The Horse As I Have Said - From Head To Hoof And Back Again.

And The Sun Had On A Crown Wrought Of Gilded Thistledown, And A Scarf Of Velvet Vapor And A Raveled Rainbow Gown; And His Tinsel-tangled Hair Tossed And Lost Upon The Air Was Glossier And Flossier Than Any Anywhere.

The Ripest Peach Is Highest On The Tree

I Don't Know How To Tell It--but Ef Such A Thing Could Be As The Angels Wantin' Boardin', And They'd Call Around On Me-- I'd Want To 'ccommodate 'em--all The Whole-in-durin' Flock-- When The Frost Is On The Punkin And The Fodder's In The Shock.