In these fields in the shadow of a butte,
Tufts of grass march in the gleaming mud.
You can lose a shoe in the slippery muck.
Be forewarned, tourist. If you lose one,
Abandon it. Freeing leather from the tight
And desperate embrace of greasy soil will
Ruin your trip abroad. Feet slew and slip
Across these fields of muck guarded by a
Sparse army of grass. The grass corps are
Survivors of the flower-strewn corpse-pyre.
Verdant blades march across the leaking,
Slippery hummocks to grow on the grease.
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