The poor man's dream,
had, wealthy fields, at night,
but, nightmares, unserene,
flashed, their toothy bite.
The wealthy field of green,
silkwormed notions white,
and golden rays that gleam,
are trapped, in horseshoes, tight,
glued, under, farrier's seam,
they yearn, for a rasp, of light.

The luscious grass, turned, hay,
is chewed, and, swallowed down,
by equine guts; decayed,
that, delect in poor men's frowns.
The neigh-saying, nagging, bray,
is heard, for miles around,
the dark sky, cried, "Mayday!"
Rains lashed, the colour brown,
and, with nothing left to say,...