They Shoot Horses. Don’t They?

In Liverpool they gather.

A spring Saturday.

Once a year.

These herds.

They come to enjoy the terror,

and all the fun of the fair.

They love white blinding fear,

of wild and beautiful beasts.

They drink their fill for courage,

a piss and shit humanity.

Red nosed and roaring,

as a pistol splits the air.

And when the news hits the ring.

They bet again, and then once again for luck.

They flutter on the last breath,

of the horse who was laid down first.