Jethro exits the
saloon, tipsy off moonshine.
Wants to ride his girl.

Betsy is his ride
or die, the most loyal
girl he’s ever had.

It’s not what you think.
Betsy’s a horse. But she too,
intoxicated.

She was munching on
fermented berries at the
saloon hitching post.

The road home once was
familiar but now a
blurry, faint vision.

They get lost in the
prairie overnight and the
sun is now rising.

They find themselves on
one of those modern roads that
isn’t made of dirt.

At first, they scoff. But
then marvel at how they aren’t
choking on road dust.

But then they see a
strange sight. One they have never
seen on the prairie.

Men wearing tight shorts,
sitting on wheel contraption
thinga ma jiggies.

The city slickers
are whizzing by at high speeds,
Jethro is intrigued.

Unfamiliar with
this mode of transport, Jethro
ponders a query.

Can Betsy outrace
a gear and sprocket fake horse?
He sets out to prove.

Jethro spots a lone
rider, intent on passing
but wheels are faster.

Hangry hungover,
he pulls out his pistol and
challenges a duel.

The rider, Lance, has
a conceal and carry so
whips out his hardware.

Before the duel can
commence, Betsy trips on an
orange street cone.

At the 12-mile mark.
She falls. Jethro’s riding skills
shine. He stays saddled.

She quickly regains
composure but still tanked off
berries, bucks Jethro.

Without the heavy
load on her back, she runs
like the wind. Wins race.

As for Jethro, he
hitchhikes from a trucker who
resembles Large Marge.

She makes fun of his
receeding hairline so he
grabs for his brimmed hat.

Dagnabbit, his hat
lost, now roadkill on the street,
trampled by race bikes.