Horse Feathers

Hey, hunker down in the bone orchard, chick, Hear the wind blowing hard and the magazine click, Feel the reins soaking wet with the blood of the dead And the eyes gleaming fire and the hooves dripping red. I could count on my fingers, if they were still there, All the times I connected to wires stripped bare And believed in the fable of biblical ways, Of a riderless horse through the holocaust days. Steam from the nostrils and froth on the spine, Frost in the morning and death on the line, Gallop and thunder in weather turned bad, Mercy inverted and sense driven mad. So my little pony became Ghengis Khan, Putting flame to the homestead and burning the barn, Black titanium dragons, hydraulic and sleek, Only horsing around, pissing over the weak.