It could have been a wicked gash, that we all knew
For it would be easily seen, the blood that it drew
And yet we might have been amazed, that it wasn’t worse
For it might have had on it, the dreaded curse
For it was a bottle, lying in the street
Threatening the toes and fingers, of anyone it might meet
But it wasn’t the whole bottle, it’s top was all broken
And the jagged edge of it, well, the danger went unspoken
But the curse was more than the mere slice of the skin
A superficial cut, is where the real danger would begin
For it was infected with the slime of the street
And having it taint your blood, would never be sweet.
The fungus and molds that grew on its jagged points
Would infiltrate your organs, and stiffen your joints.
Soon you would lay abed, crying in pain
But never would your rise, never to be healed again
Alas, it would have been simple, to cut short this course
It was all caused by, and aided by the act of a horse
How, you would ask, did this become an equestrian matter
On the way to return the bottle on the horse, a bee stung the latter
As its immense body rose up on its rear legs
The bottle was thrown, and shattered like week old eggs
The rider hung on tight, and kept his seat
And unlike the bottle’s fate, no breakage did he meet.
So on they went, just a small bottle short
And no case of poisoning, did he have to report.