Stolen Ponies

I need a woman who isn't afraid to load the magazine of an AK-47
30 little brass warriors, seven point six two millimeters by 39
But would much rather heat the skillet
And knead the dough
And feed bread to her tired hunter who's been chasing deer all night.


I need a woman who favors my bloody shoes and tangled hair,
Who feels me coming a mile away. When I ride into camp
Atop a pickup full of firewood, concealing illicit meat,
I want her to drop everything she's doing and stare.


I need a woman who understands
That a gift to her father does not make her my property;
That it's a promise, the taking of a vow,
And the most romantic gesture I could possibly make.
Who needs flowers, after all, when you have stolen ponies?