Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know
(we’re illegal aliens, mojados, shhhhh)

the mother’s shooting at us
(Henry, Mr. Bones and Me)
we didn’t see the desgraciado
pinche no trespassing sign---
our little horse must think it queer

to stop without the migra near
but we have miles to go before we pees
unless we disappear like Weldon Kees.