Stallion's song, reprise

Ice cream? You've got to be kidding. I wasn't there, but I swear I could see the insult shatter against Papa's stern countenance in the nursing home.

This stallion wrote his rules-- he knew that within the limits of God's pasture, the grass was greenest. The best part was the wind against his back. The only time he wore a saddle was when he became too weak to buck it off; even then, he still refused to be tamed. And here, in the nursing home, he was making ice cream with the other women. How did you think it was? Is the stifling chafe of this saddle supposed to be as worthy against the skin as the soft breath of freedom?

"It sucked."

Just let it come, he said. Even before he began to improve, he accepted the end. You can't live forever. If this is how it must be, then take me away. This was neither a plea to live, nor a plea to die.

It was only the simple submission that the life of a saint is never his in the first place.

[Rest in peace, Papa. Should the skies fall, my heart will never forget you.]