The cocaine was boiling the blood,

And only when the horse broke its neck,

The screams echoed through.

The left eye shot far,

And the right leg parted from the horse.

The muscle tore apart, like fresh bread.

The blood flooding the nostrils and mouth.

Poor thing, poor it was.

For only with cocaine, it would run.

Like a broken toy,

The child handled it without accord

For anything but its own satisfaction.

It gurgled in its own fluid, choking.

Poor thing, poor thing it was.

It felt every pain, until its heart beat last