My Master took me on a quarter mile ride, my nostrils still open wide. My step is weak, my wind about gone, but you couldn’t tell it when I entered the barn. Heads turn with eagerness to find their place, they are in line to run the race. Old soaps like me, who have done there time, fade to the back and step out of line. Well, I guess this is it. Is this how it ends? I fade to the back, and can’t find a friend. Everyone has gone where green grass is plenty, easy to chew and nothing to do! No one to care, all by mysel,f my life is on a shelf. Whoa is me. Did you here? Yes, I heard, it’s my master. Only he can whistle like that. He calls but the gate is closed, so who needs a gate? but your way to old. Heads turn again as they search for the truth, that old soap is way past his youth. Out of the crowd my master steps up, takes hold of my reins and says with a smile ,let it be known this is my servant. Well done, well done to you. Welcome home.