The Fugitive Comes Home

In a light grey pony he rides in the valley
He gallops at the speed of his hopes
What he desires, he does; what he does, tis' his desire,
This evening, he has given himself to the vale's intoxicating ale;
Sadly though, he is a fugitive, him many wouldn't forgive
But what does it matter in this universe so worse
If not for him and his horses and his ponies?

In episodic busts when the enigma spreads, the stigma disappears
In the pneumonic airs of those December nights
In the sultry sun, like today's, of the monsoon skies
The fugitive rides, he swanks his swords and guns
In a rate his detractors would believe only their gods could do
In his signature style, he lives, to hell with death!

At one daybreak, in his cagy gait, the fugitive makes
One little chance to enhance his glance
Just once, to live with the conforming folks, never knowing their jokes;
Lo, the going with the flow echoes the woe when he meet the good folks,
Much, much worse than his solitude he sees in them—such a disgrace,
Their lives are to the vale's spell, the landscape's elegant drape and all,
With one shot, he has rode back, to the wild he has always called home.