Pro Patria Mori

Pro Patria Mori Missouri volunteers bit bullets, watched as Santa Ana's baggage washed their brazen hair, hip deep in the Rio Grande. The ancient river moved across the land Like slow drool down a leather cheek. Bang! Paul Bunyan's balls rolled down the Great Divide, rattled across the porcelain sea. Oh, the girls! Hair hot and black, Whoopee! Their tongues as pink as baby fat. Now tongs drop a hissing crepe on the defoliated plate. Butter complicates our fingers, soils the bib. We crack a claw. Like a crib at Benin, wary and dull, the eagle fills his nest with skulls.