In his barn with dirtied walls
The wearied hostler mucks the stalls.
It is his plight on this dreary day
To repeat all chores he did yesterday.

He bears the chides of the irascible trainer
Who takes his nips and couldn’t be vainer.
The hostler dreams of a welcome day
When the trainer is finally on his way.

The job is now of maddening attrition,
Working the horses is raw repetition.
In a spare stall there is but a bed
Where each night the hostler lays his head.

He’ll do it again the following morn,
All to the din of the trainer’s scorn.
And, if on the morrow he’s had enough
Perhaps he’ll call the trainer’s bluff.

Which would mean a steely glare.
The lock of fists, if it came to there.
But the better choice, the hostler reasoned,
Be gone from this stable, much too seasoned.