The horse's name was Remorse.There were people said, "Gee, what a nag!"And they were Edgar Allan Poe bugs and soThey called him Remorse. When he was a geldingHe flashed his heels to other poniesAnd threw dust in the noses of other poniesAnd won his first race and his secondAnd another and another and hardly everCame under the wire behind the other runners.And so, Remorse, who is gone, was the hero of a playBy Henry Blossom, who is now gone.What is there to a monicker? Call me anything.A nut, a cheese, something that the cat brought in. Nick me with any old name.Class me up for a fish, a gorilla, a slant head, an egg, a ham.Only ... slam me across the ears sometimes ... and hunt for a white starIn my forehead and twist the bang of my forelock around it.Make a wish for me. Maybe I will light out like a streak of wind.