"Killer on the road.....
his brain is squirming like a toad....
if you give this man a ride,
sweet family will die:
killer on the road.
Yeah."
parachuting, jumping from a perfectly good aircraft,
behind enemy lines.
Normandy, man. Shitfuck.
Gerries flailing like cordwood.
Taking a better pair of shoes from a dead GI.
Eating grapes while savoring the smell of gunpowder in the air.
Am I too morbid, you say?
Memento Mori, losers. A reminder of death.
Some Kentucky pone was playing his harmonica,
singing a song about corn.
Meanwhile, we were just idly watching the smoke rise near the horizon.
Canned fish and stale crackers, which you might think dismal,
but it fills the belly and revitalizes the necessary killing spirit.
Like in the old days: warm beer reviving the far from home seamen.
Warm beer and piccolo music, something silly about girls watching the coastline,
something that sounds vaguely louder than the din from seashell,
but no less profound in how markedly vague it is.
We only had what we took with us over there,
no matter how many Gerries we picked over in the pits.
Hitler Youth knives, Riefenstahl autographed b/w porn postcards.
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