They fight with fists, with wrists, with heads,
With words they picked in sties and sheds,
With pails of milk, with bales of hay,
With nails that grow from day to day.

They fight in gangs, they fight by self.
No call for truce, no call for help.
They fight to play, they play to fight.
They fight with not a qualm in sight.

And then they hug – no smile, no talk.
They wipe their blood and sweat, and walk.
To cows, to sheds. To pigs, to sties.
And all is well till one more dies.