Wild Oats
(Ode to the Mr. Ed TV series, 1961-66)

by on April 2, 2009 :: 0 comments

“Hey Wilbur, why did you place the sign,
Horse Motel above my stall?”
the conversationalist
asked the grumpy owner
who shot evil looks to his long-time pal.

“Well, Ed, its time to pay the piper
or it’s the glue factory for you,”
the middle-aged, sweater-wearing architect
replied nonchalantly. “The way I see it
for the past five years
you’ve had three squares a day
not to mention
all those sugar cubes, apples, and carrots.
I’ve been the green grocer to you
and how have you repaid me?”
Carol cried and cried last night
and why? Because I spent my honeymoon
in this cold barn
instead of a nice, warm, welcoming bed
because you had colic.
Our neighbors,
first the Addisons
then the Kirkwoods,
suspect I have a screw loose
because I always cover for every one
of your cockamamie schemes.”

The Palomino kicked at the ground with his front right hoof.
“Wilbur, would you cover me with a blanket– it’s chilly in here. And if you wouldn’t mind, a cup of tea would be nice, too.”

“See Ed, that’s what I mean – I get no respect!”
Mr. Post screamed . . . before tossing
a scratchy red, green and brown Indian cover
over his tenant’s back.

“Then give me my freedom,” Ed replied angrily.
“I love rolling hills
as far as the eyes can see,
green pastoral meadows with yellow dandelions
and pretty fillies
who thirst for conversation
from a horse of a different color.”

“Ah, I see where you’re going with this
my four-legged freeloader.
To you, friendship is a one-way street.
The real world
would eat you alive – much like what all
old horses are good for – served up in a blend of
Purina dog food,” the cranky owner huffed.
“So make your choice – stop manipulating me
no horsing around, and let me ride you
three times a week around the park.

The chestnut mare leaned over the stall door,
nuzzled up against the man’s face,
whinnied, and nibbled at his earlobe.

“I was just kidding, Ed –
I never would have sold you to the dog food company.
Heck, your meat is so tough no dog could gnaw through it.”

The next morning,
a distraught Carol Post found
her trampled and bloodied
husband’s unconscious body
near Ed’s stall.

The stud was no where to be found . . .
unless one looked far up into the lush hills
where he held court with several wild equines,
eating dandelions and sowed his
wild oats.

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