A dead horse don’t plough

In less green and pleasant lands 
Out in a sodden paddock stands 
a horse with hair in matted strands
And that horse is old ness.

With hips just like a dairy cow
In her youth she was a prize but now,
You have to sit and wonder how
She came to be old ness.

Her ribs like furrows down her back,
Her head hung low, her shoulders slack,
And with each step her bones do crack,
Oh what a sight old ness.

And yet this geriatric mare,
Ploughs fields barren fields bare,
Glassy eyed and shoulders square,
How can you still old ness?

And keeping every furrow straight,
Is an inpatient man of 68,
Who keeps her pulling that tremendous weight,
How dare he still old ness?

A willow branch lies in his grip
In case her feathered hooves should slip
To use generously as a whip 
What kind of man old ness? 

Until that day back in November, 
After a cold and wet September, 
That dreaded day he won’t remember,
Oh the time old ness

You’d trudged every field about,
Legs like branches, sweat like stout 
Until at last your heart gave out
You gave it all old ness 

I’d like to think you didn’t feel it,
If not you very well concealed it, 
He brought that branch so he could wield it 
The pain of it old ness

And though at this point, you were dead
He whipped your body till it bled
Till your tissue paper skin had shred
The insanity old ness

And like how you’d done down the banks 
He carved furrows down your hollow flanks
All I could do was just give thanks 
You’d already gone old ness

He left you there, still in your chains,
The gashes deep on your remains,
As food for next years barley grains,
He dug no grave old ness

I hate to say it but it’s true,
He’s already got another you,
Some old nag that was going for glue,
Which is worse old ness? 

She’s got hips just like a dairy cow,
And she makes me stop and wonder how
He hasn’t learnt a dead horse don’t plough
Not many have old ness.