Whose bones these are I think I know
Under a thin screed of snow
All picked clean and scattered about
But which is whose they all had bones

We stand our horses out of reverence
No point to risk a closer look
Bobby’s leg he broke when he was nine, we might find
Or Granny’s jaw, no teeth

Then Alfred’s skull with the bullet hole
Even the bullet might come out whole
I saw it go in, anyway
That day the mob ran over us

This place is dangerous, desolate and cold
We should not linger exposed and skyed
We have purpose; watchful scouts must ride
Make our circuit for the few who hide, alive