I will smash the door-posts, I will force the doors.
I will bring up the dead to eat the living.
And the dead will outnumber the living.
I reckon he’d been hauling that saddle for days when he found Hell. In the sweltering Sunday heat he stunk like the grave. An’ his white duster was stained with enough dirt and blood to make him look like the dead risen again. Mebbe he was. The unliving walking through Hell.
