They have made me a general
not a pasty faced one
who sits in a safe bunker
making squares and circles in maps.
I’m a leader of men atop my tank white scarf flying,
up the October avenue,
ticker tape parade,
how they love me now.
We are on our way to the verdant field behind the lyceum
my foes are there
those shadowy figures that terrorize my mind
sending shivers down my spine.
But the field is full of horses, mules, ponies and randy goats
“Shot holes in the sky”
I brusquely tell my soldiers.
Golden harps came crashing down,
bloody pings were going on my nerves anyway.
Later a gentle shower of white feathers descend,
sorry about that.
A jets fighter’s, dramatic vapour writes:
“Warmongers are often deeply religious people.”