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.
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