red grit on Indian trails ignited
quantrill’s lust for blood, and he scalped
two farmers on the way to Lawrence
he waved those scalps like torches
and lit up the eastern prairie
like it hadn’t been since creation
after the dead were lined up and shot
the cinders cooled and the smoke cleared
he hung that skin and hair on his saddle
and looking into the blood
said a prayer for the mothers of orphans
risen now into the dust
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