I got trampled, appearing over the wall, into a field. All the farms were padlocked at the chest, and the straw was burning under the sun, sizzling and cackling, feeding the sad horses, shivering and sweating under the loose light cctv fields, in burden of hot skin and fur, chained in, by the men who worship the sun, who turned them out to feed dully on burning grass, locked in cctv squares, never planned a right of way, or a right to remain, the way they remain, if it isn't much, they were grazing on burnt grass.
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