“It’s the bullets what’s silver,
ne’er one tongue, mine’s the fleshyou find in men’s mouths;neither, though swore they, fired,shone like one, unbinding nightas it do what it does ever unerring,lighting flesh. my tongue thusunprecious, as song to howl,as captain to warlord, as wolfto man, as the wolf in the manuntil not, the flashing bullets shotto unwolf the man unmannedby the wolf; the man scattersunder a moon we make plated,the man only crawling, a silvertongue’s the wile, needfulto hawk the shots more dearthan what they enter to renderstill, still mine’s flesh you expectin a man’s mouth,” the manhowled, is howling.
