Out in a field
A horse at work,
Because working makes all men
With means come alive
And shape the world
For the woeful and weak,
Whose bread cannot rise
And whose fields reap only
Dead stones and red clay.
Our horse is a man,
His till is a man,
The father of a son
Who sweats is a man.
Brilliance of bounty
Will give blood its worth,
So drain those with
Piss, filth, and water inside
And let them live dry with
An outstretched empty hand.
But when a horse falls,
Let it end
And move on.
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