Lying in the Cotton, Thinking.

The thin man swaying Beside his brother, And another, And another; White fur hats Like the soldiers of the Tsar Frozen by the power of Bolshevism, Or like a soldier of Bolshevism Frozen by the want to go it alone; I pluck off his head Reducing his hat to loose soft strands, Then his brother, And the other, And the other; So easy to end it for them. I smell smoke, burning, crackling, And look to the bottom of the hill; Seems some horrifying revolution Will wipe out the entire family And I can’t save them; All I can do is watch them burn; How apt, How apt, For we are all rooted to the ground; We all feel helpless in the presence Of such powerful, destructive flames.