Gitty Up, Nag! Come on Saddle On, Up!
The Poet and his Doppelganger Son.
Ismael, Little Ismael, was the One.
His One and Only Son he Couldn’t Touch.
THAT HORse that Man that Elegant Tongue-Heart.
Breathed for a Thousand per Century
Scents of the Beauty America Held.
What a Lovely Martyr what a Bold START.
FROM There to the Aztec, Mayan, Inca,
FRESH AND INDIGENOUS ANCESTRAL
The BERRY that you THrive on its ESSENCE.
PICKED BY THE HANDS OF THE CONTINENTS ARCS.
But This Has Gone Off of the Subject, Joe,
You Are the Power of a Eulogy.
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