Washichu - Montana Territory, June, 1876

God blast this prairie dust. Screw the regulations. Another forty miles on beans and hay And I ain’t seen no injuns. Raw edged and saddle sore From tracking that heathen, Lo. Still trusting Custer's luck, Hard-ass though he be. I’m bent on venting spleen With damn good reason For my righteous indignation, Assailed as I am on all sides By factors that torment my spirit And bastards who bugger my gut. But sure as Gideon called on the trumpets My Spencer will sing. I mean to kick ass, regardless. Hoka hey.