She stroked the breast and plucked away a bur,
She kissed the pads, and leapt back with a shout,
'My God, he's got the spudder. Ern. Look out.'
Ern clenched his fists. Too late. He felt no pain,
Only incredible haste in something swift,
A shock that made the sky black on his brain,
Then stillness, while a little cloud went drift.
The weight upon his thigh bones wouldn't lift;
Then poultry in a long procession came,
Grey-legged, doing the goose-step, eyes like flame.