coins so dirty so blurred,
ringing in stranded hateful hands,
and are the legs of their mules
if the whip is called hunger
the owners of roads that do not belong to anyone,
locks at the whim of the little depth,
open to make way for the horseshoes
leaving traces that lead back to retaliate,
to avoid tearing their hair more.
What know the guts of fists?,
know that water the stiff upper lip,
know everything and more you stand,
always hard to know because this bread.