Cowgirl Seahorse

fishing bobber lights and
we caught something good that night,
a ballerina on the ice
fell down, down, down,
and got back up,
and I don’t sing too much
these days,
stuck in some worry wart phase,
but she does the singin’ for the both of us
over the South Street radio,
with longing love in her eyes
some ole English bulldog dies
to lick her Birkenstock boots dry,
while I’m behind these bars
in my mind, in my mind –
where there’s a wild, wild West
pounding through my chest,
and I wanna believe
the lion and the dragon dance
give way to some seahorse
sunrise.