Oh, that familiar gale pounding the window pane like a marching drum!
I thought I left the war, but its vigor never ceases,
pieces of dynamite puncture charred doors,
scores of soldiers lying waist deep in mud,
creases in the sky from low-flying bombers,
I imagine that battlefield funneling with artillery and gunfire,
trumpets blasting limps with their D-major scale,
pale faces roped by cymbals clashing the skull,
dull-eyed lunatics strapped with flutes ready to blow,
I conjure a parachute to float aimlessly among the barrage of bullets,
machines rattling like a broken jalopy trundling down the block,
stocked full of mercenaries drowned in thoughtless drive,
like a hive alive cause’ someone wants a taste,
paste those billboards and salute,
cause’ these days ain’t ending
till people’s voices tip the pot.
