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
His very defintion is in things he is not-
Can’t be procured.
no anesthetic and very
Unadulterated to the bone,
Our collective madness surfacing,
Son of Yeats.

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