Dead horses we beat ride us.

Dead horses we beat ride us.
They pin us in place on the back
of a forward-surging world, as we
whip their behinds to mush. Poor tail
can no longer lazily sweep the flies
that swarm over horse's ass and us
besides, as on and on and on
we ride. We rear and rail
and ramp as best we can.
We caper and prance

With a horse on our back
we can't quite shake,
can't rid ourselves of.
This horse we've brought,
or which has brought us to this dance
of push and shove we have come
to always make.

We dance with the one we brung. We can lead,
but we can't really hold a drink, nor find
the sunset now, ride off into it:
lonesome, unsung and heroic, and freed.

This horse we have too well-hung,
draped onto and over shoulders,
dictates our pace.

Its gifted mouth choked
with apples and sugarcubes,
sons and daughters of flies
and dung. So we run as one
our accustomed race.