Holding a chicken upside down by its legs,
I douse the creature in a batter of flour, eggs, and milk;
the concoction sitting in a silver vat
in the middle of a dilapidated warehouse. ...
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.