How he'd blare (Beg pardon) " Horseshit! " ,
biting the " t " off flat
with a gambler's grin — the ref-
utation-ultimate,
the reductio-ad-scat —

I often remember now:
Dwyer, a flight-cadet
from Flatbush in Brooklyn —
which raised some question how
he'd seen a horse, even, let

alone the product invoked.
But its force was restorative —
so far a cry from the cold,
crowded, propellor-stroked
quads we learned war in. . . . Give

credit, then, for exot-
ic guanos never beheld
that littered the lost streets
of Dorado and Camelot
but nevertheless smelled;

for imaginary hip-
podromes with real turds
in them. . . . I can still see
that curled back upper lip
summoning shadowy herds

of Percherons, Clydesdales to
void on and inundate
some latest official in-
humanity or SNAFU. . . .
I miss their muster of late —

the Law a pissing-post
for liars, assassins. . . . Hey ,
Dwyer! . . . . But he bought the farm
near Brest and enough compost
at last. So I'll quote, if I may. . . .