human
Can you write a poem for me in the style of George Washington Rains?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem in the style of George Washington Rains:
  at the
Three little foals you see at play.
They romp and sport all through the day,
But sometimes they are most sedate
And try to ape their mothers' gait.
They wheel and race and leap and prance,
And sometimes they are said to dance:
But always they will stand and stare
At anyone who passes there.
The horse, like us, must go to school
To learn by precept and by rule.
Like us, he does not love the work,
Like us, he's not allowed to shirk.
This little instrument you see
Strapped on his back, shaped like a V,
The horse to bear the bit and rein.
Billy, the circus pony, can
Distinguish letters like a man:
He'll hold up for you in the ring
With P for Pony he will show
That he his family name doth know;
And he will find the C for clown
And at his feet will put it down.
A horse's great red-letter days
Are days of hunting, when his ways
Are often very wilful. Here
See this John Gilpin in great fear.
He came out just to see the Meet,
But the horse thought he would compete
With horses, hounds and fox for place,
And led the man this madcap race.
These two are very much dismayed
To see the fuss their horse has made
Because this dog in playful mood
Barked in a manner rather rude.
It is a thing some horses do
Until the driver makes them rue
Their fits of temper. Then they say
That kicking doesn't seem to pay.
These big carthorses and these little children are great friends.
Peggy is the children's pride,
And she allows them all to ride.
She comes to them whene'er they call,
And loves to have them in her stall.
With others she has wilful ways.
She will be cross with John for days,
Will kick and squeal, will show much spite,
And very often try to bite.
What sweeter sound on winter morn
Than music of the hounds and horn?
What prettier sight could e'er be seen
Than hounds and horses on the green?
See winding down this country way
An eager throng one winter day.
Keen are the men for sport of course,
But just as keen each hound and horse.
Rearing is an awkward vice,
No rider ever thinks it nice.
When the horse prances on two feet
It's difficult to keep one's seat.
This lady riding in the Row
Is a good rider, you must know.
When on two legs her horse would soar
She quickly brings him down to four.
See this runaway flecked with foam
Galloping fast as he can for home,
Caring nought for the shouting man
Running also as fast as he can.
Flung by the bolter on the roadside
Small is his chance of a pleasant ride.
Two legs matched in a race with four--
Perhaps they'll meet at the stable door.
The cab horse is a useful steed,
Ever handy, good at need--
A patient uncomplaining jade,
What should we do without his aid?
By day, by night he may be had,
Be the weather good or be it bad.
Many a knock and many a fall
He gets, and yet survives them all.
When horses buck they take a bound
With all their four feet off the ground.
Unless they know just what to do
And how to keep their seats all through.
The riders come off fast and thick
When horses start this Yankee trick.
But with the cowboys of the West
The horses come off second best.
Of all the tiresome steeds that are
The jibber is the worst by far.
He stands and contemplates the scene--
An act embarrassing and mean.
And nine times out of ten he chooses
An awkward spot when he refuses
To move. To cure him, take him out
And turn the jibber round about.
The Bus horse does not work all day,
For if he did he'd waste away.
He does his work and then is able
To take a long rest in the stable.
When summer suns beat down upon it
His head is sheltered by a bonnet;
And though it makes him look a duffer,
He hasn't half the heat to suffer.
"A wicked horse," perhaps you say,
"To shy in such a sudden way,
And almost make his rider fall.
It is not nice of him at all."
It was not wickedness, but fear.
That dreadful white thing rushing near
Appeared to his affrighted eyes
Full seven times its proper size.
All horses very curious are
And things which they espy afar
Arouse their curiosity:
They wonder what on earth they see.
With ears pricked up and cautious mien
They come to see. When they have seen,
They snort and turn and off they scurry
In a contemptuous desperate hurry.
This horse's working days are o'er.
The shafts and saddle nevermore
Shall hold him. Here he waits his end
Cared for by those who love to tend
An old companion. He may rest
In his loose box or take the best
Of grazing which the meadows give--
A pensioner while he shall live.