Bleeding Horses
All these bleeding horses
you can't hear yourself think
with the racket of their whinnying
last gasp call and answer chants
and Helen pet sheath those trojans
in your blouse there are no incognitos
in this herd, unless you're prone
to necrophiliac urges, move along love
there's nothing to see here
and that coach and four is less
than apocalyptic with its coconut shell
hoofbeats, not spellbound neither
these beasts are walking cold