White man of yesteryear, from my tower
I hear
dirty boots astomping
above, not underground-
needs no prompting.
He smells not of calvin klein,
but of earth, sweat and spine
tobacco, lead, rotgut and pine
No thought fraudulent, or political convent
Unfettered, ungelded, hellbent,
a dying breed.
Coachman yells
“faster they’re gaining!”
He charges on
Uncomplaining-
His very defintion is in things he is not-
Can’t be procured.
pure
no anesthetic and very
unapologetic-
Unadulterated to the bone,
homegrown.
Our collective madness surfacing,
Son of Yeats.
The Spoils of War 