SPANISH DOG SONG
Sing along:
Caverns and mountains with caverns and ditches and dirt roads with ditches through mountains and fast flowing streams of undrinkable water.
Hours and hours and hours. All spent.
Dogs and more dogs chained to a stone. Or a stump.
On a hill behind a village crumbling under candy wrappers.
A dark silhouette: a tent.
Under cruel, warm stars.
Wicked and kind.
Way off up there, with the master.
Meat and clean water.
All the horse meat and salt meat and dog meat in Spain.
Fuck-magazines and fag packets and mud-rain flowing into the south.
Farmers in their rubbish-tip fields. Drunken in open trucks.
Tin buckets, and a hundred radio stations playing four songs.
Songs of Spain.
Dog pain.
In bars, dry brown faces stuck in bull-fight TV.
Across the waste, on hard ground:
Sleeping bags doubled up in silence.
Sniffed by the dogs of the village. By the dogs of the farms.
Chained to madness. Hoarse and relentless.
Inmates under mindless stars:
The starving dog chorus.
