Poetry

Tolling Of The Bells
by Earl Bergland, 1968

Mustang, you're dying, there is less of me.
You are America, land of the free.
Your coat's uncurried, your spirit a refrain
Like buffalo before, clouding the plain.

To the BLM Dept. mustangs are a nuisance,
A cockle burr in the rancher's pants.
Wild horses, wild horses you're public domain.
The land that you're living on is of the same.

The curs dogging you by air and wheel
Til hide burnt hemp raw is wounded by steel.
Hounding til your muzzle sprays a blood flame.
Spitting on the heritage our forefathers claimed.

Each lunar spin only $.67 per bovine.
Such public charity stings a rancher's heart mean.
Ranchers take heed of America's plea.
Or branded horse thieves will hang in memory.

Broomtail foal of the starved bones
Still now in death's draped home,
Knothole eyes alas, alas,
Your mother ravaged for eating public grass.


notes:
lunar spin = one month and BLM charges .67 cents


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