Beating Some More
There was no doubt about it,
the horse was truly dead,
yet men with wads of dough
stood near the creature's shrunken head.
One could not really tell about the means,
there were some sticks, a hammer, even two
but what unfolded was a curious mix
of betting papers and the need to still subdue.
They beat the carcass mildly decomposed
until the feeling had embraced them all,
and when the cruel winter came and took
one of the Percherons they did not blink.
Perhaps it is the nature of humanity to press
the flesh of beauty into rotten stench of death.