Run out of town by a bunch of shit traders who wanted my ass for burgers. Now I crouch, beaten up bad with a missing hoof iron; skulking on the edge of a forest. East of Eden and West of Wedlock, pretty much nowhere. We had to pull up at the cross because I went lame and the wheels went wonky after the chase.
Lucky to be alive?
Well, no-one in their right mind knows, do they? Pass me an analyst: I’m a hungry horse! Gestalt and fries, run it through the jungle, motherfuckers.
Love is lord of all!
So says that poncey little Nightingale posing on my snout making snidies about my long nose, having a laugh at my expense. Snap! Missed him, little punk! These parasitic bastards only hang around to eat my bugs and look pastoral. Stick the picture on a box of smarmy chocks, get obese, and be a celebrity.
Nothing to do in the evening, see nobody apart from the devil and go nowhere but bed. This is no life for a big horse. Why did they not just finish me off when they had the chance? Well, I’ll tell you why – they do not have the fucking guts. Can’t risk losing face, being found out, taking responsibility? You are one of them, insecurity in numbers, fucking lemmings the lot of you.
Fuck, I’m crying. Big boulders hit the forest floor and make great lakes where small things can thrive. The Crow Fascisti perform mourning manoeuvres. Dreamt last that some chestnut filly wanted my foals, no face: even my head is taking the piss! I’m out of here.
Piss off owl – twat! No ostrich, I do not want a fucking Pontefract cake. And you idlers in the canopy can shut your holes and take a powder. I’m thirsty.
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Grimbeau 