Hegemonic Equestrian Euthanasia
(after the sonnet style of Alexander Pushkin's Eugene Onegin)

Make hay while the sun is shining,
so the aphorism goes.
What’s the use of all that whining?
“Russians stepped upon our toes!
They wore boots while we wore sandals.
How unfair! Those savage vandals!”
Now we beat our horse that’s dead.
Make him get up; pull our sled.
Still he lies there, stiff, unmoving.
Maybe good to eat? Who knows?
After autumn come the snows.
Stuck here now, which ends up proving
why we have the U. S. A.:
to make horse droppings out of hay.