Morse the Horse was a thoroughbred,
From the tip of his tail, to the tip of his head.
His strength he inherited from his sire,
That passionate, competitive, irrepressible fire.
Morse the Horse was destined to run,
He was born to become a champion.
His soul he inherited from the mare,
That magnificent, triumphant, elegant flair.
Morse the Horse was schooled to race,
In an ever increasing, thundering pace.
He'd break from the gate at the sound of the bell,
Like a penitent sinner running from hell.
Morse the Horse did run one day,
In a most spectacular, unbelievable way.
He led at the start, he led at the turn,
A blanket of roses that day he did earn.
So Morse the Horse retired to the field,
A stable of colts his retirement did yield.
But his offspring though fast they would never be,
As great as Morse the Horse of history.