06/09/2025
A little pony, Storm by name,
Lived on fields of sunlit fame.
His coat, a grey like skies above,
He loved to run, he loved to shove.
With playful kicks and happy neighs,
He spent his coltish, youthful days.
He chased the butterflies so bright,
A joyful, energetic sight.
He'd gallop fast across the green,
The happiest pony ever seen.
His mane, a cloud of wind-blown grace,
A smile upon his gentle face.
He drank from streams so cool and clear,
No hint of worry, doubt, or fear.
He’d nap beneath the willow tree,
As peaceful as a pony could be.
He dreamt of clouds and stormy skies,
A mirror to his own bright eyes.
Young Storm, a pony full of glee,
Living wild and happily.
