yeah, mud!

pulled him by the strap so he tumbled in

beside us,

head volleyed over hoofs in a dead dark

crevice

yeah, mud scatters in the path

of the man up top,

they’re saying in the back

he’s got the sack and given up,

and now we’re stuffed.

now he’s like a symbol for the dread and the

panic,

sun spinning like a bowl on a spear

in a sky like granite,

no sir, haloing his head as in a

black felt cloak, it makes me want to

laugh like it makes me want to choke.

them Cossack steeds, baptised in gunfire,

man they look good,

tearing through the dark of half past two,

their ribs showing.

cornered like a fox where his lines got

severed,

hands motion at the air so the

flies don’t get him,

look, guts out on exhibition in the

water and the blood mix,

guarded, scribbling the vitals for his

mother in a book.

I don’t know what I’d write my

mother,

I’d creak and bleed, coated in

leather.

them Cossack steeds, baptised in gunfire,

man they look good,

tearing through the dark of half past two,

their ribs showing.

my Cossack breed, half-blind and

gun-shy, man he looks good,

sleeping on his feet like horses do,

his ribs showing.

pulled him by the strap so he tumbled in

beside us,

head volleyed over hoofs in a dead dark

crevice,

yeah, mud!