TO THE FOUR COURTS, PLEASE The driver rubbed at his nettly chin With a huge loose forefinger, crooked and black; And his wobbly violet lips sucked in, And puffed out again and hung down slack: A black fang shone through his lop-sided smile, In his little pouched eye flickered years of guile. And the horse, poor beast! It was ribbed and forked; And its ears hung down, and its eyes were old; And its knees were knuckly; and, as we talked, It swung the stiff neck that could scarcely hold Its big skinny head up -- then I stepped in, And the driver climbed to his seat with a grin. God help the horse, and the driver too! And the people and beasts who have never a friend! For the driver easily might have been you, And the horse be me by a different end! And nobody knows how their days will cease! And the poor, when they're old, have little of peace! -- James Stephens (1882-1950)