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The Ballad of Pinal CountyIn the dusty, arid desertWas a wooden, battered homeWhere a dozen mares and stallionsUsed to live and used to roamAs the sun was going downA roaring rent the landAs a little ute sped by the farmAnd kicked up rocks and sandThe kitchen it was emptyThe paint was left to flakeAnd then the sun came up againAnd dawn began to break.Came many days and many nights,And dwindling water sourcesThe land was empty lifeless but for12 abandoned horsesThe paddock once a havenWhere the horses used to lopeNow more like a prisonBrown and wilting, without hope.In a little, nearby villageThe word had spread aroundThat the steeds had been forgottenAnd they needed to be found.With haste the people hurriedPinal County was aliveThey all put in an effortIn the hope that they'd surviveAt last the colts were sightedThey were looking close to deathThey were brought back to the townshipWhile the desert held its breathWith gentle hands and heartsThe horses, they were nursedWit
SnowThe gentlest layer of crystal whiteNurturing hills and shaping the landThe moon shone on that perfect nightWith fingers of light from its ancient handNo sound could be made to spoil that eveThe layers of white stretch on stillThe snow knew not how to grieveThe snow was hard, the snow could killIt hid the darkest, deepest fearsThat could only be from winter broughtThe dark, the hate of all the yearsA ring, ugly and iron-wrought.What could lie under the layer of snow?A loving friend, a deadly foe?