Tis fall on the prairie
a herd of mustangs stands
to watch the leaves
as they descend
in slow angelic dancing steps
flaunting rich hues
and fresh crisped curls....
a wolf, tail low between hind legs
on his way home,
but empty fanged,
passing a hare
frozen with jungle fright
oblivious to the birds
in barren trees.

Wild Turkeys walk,
more than they'd ever fly,
they cross clear borders
just to see a promised land.

There is a man
who's lived here since
the peace arrived
on the Prairie.
Jim Beam's the name
and Bourbon is his game.

His beef is not with wolves,
or hares,
wild mustangs leave him cold,
he's picked his private fight
with a formidable
and silly looking foe.

Wild Turkey, yes,
he's beaten Mister Beam
back when the General,
at Little Big Horn lost,
as well,
he's always partial to
the other side.

Herbert Nehrlich 2

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-big-horn/