Then Pancho Villa rode into town--
with his black guns and white spurs
and the dust never quite catching up to him.
He ate and drank and slept and seemed
profoundly without care, until
a rooster, ugly, starving, pathetic
wandered into the courtyard
and called to the sun.
The outlaw started and stood and shot--
the glass out of a window, the knob off a door,
then, finally, the life out of a starving chicken.
One saw then, amongst
glass and dust and blood and feathers
in his eyes and his smile and his hand that did not shake,
the price he had paid.