Of the pestilence, I write
in spite of or because of my love of
the equine
and not of the ***** swine,
the one of the four who sit on the hilltop,taking their fill until we drop and then they carry us away.

The four horsemen they say,you only see on the day,when at the end of your tether,you find yourself tethered to a weakening heart and as you gasp out your last,you can hear as they start,cantering slowly your way.

Pestilence and disease sit easily at ease on the saddle,and on his fingers cut with sores are the spores of my destruction which I cannot obstruct,
I'm ****** if I can and what was once a fine man is brought to his knees,by one of the four.

Now eaten away and the core of me being exposed,I compose a write,a light,a decomposition given the position I'm in and the position is this,
I can hear a pin drop as an ant pops the question
I can see the sky shy away as the night comes on out to play and the twilight does not have a say
in this, the slaying of a man,where only heaven can help me and only the devil would bother.

Give them oats,brush their coats and curry their favour,whatever you do will win you no favours,
The cantering horse will appear when the time of your end is quite near,
you cannot appease the one known as the pestilence who brings in the disease
known as death.