Tequila of the moon can be
More liquid to the taste
And drenching to aridity
Than rain on desert waste;
Pungent as a sagebrush fire
The winds are flowing west,
Edges like a cholla spire,
Eleven score abreast;
Labor of the loam has built
A fortress on each wing
And giant cacti, on the silt
Of buttes, are signalling.
(Norman MacLeod)
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