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B-52: a city on its own. 
You mess with us, we’ve got technology.
I loved it when we flew into the zone:
as Ernie said, “We’ll kill ’em till they’re free.”

My job? To watch the black cascade of death
and myriad explosions in the woods:
Louisiana lilt – “You hold your breath,”
that’s Ernie’s voice – “delivering the goods!”

The pretty serpentine of falling bombs
that seemed to slither through the virgin air
distracted me from pilot intercoms,
and radar monitors’ unblinking glare.

We didn’t think – I only speak for me –
you’d have to ask my buddies on the crew,
if any made it out – of those VC,
or what our “dirty chemicals” might do

to people down below. We went along
with what they told us, Audie Murphy-like.
Neil Armstrong was, to us, just one word – “strong”.
And dinks and gooks could go and take a hike.

That lunar surface. Nothing down there moved.
“I guess they won’t be planting no more rice,”
- that’s Ernie. Our sophistication proved,
we sang the Sound of Music (Edelweiss).

By accident, I saw a TV Show
last week, some fancy name, “Unceasing Toil”,
about those peasants. Watching HBO
is not my thing. It said we wrecked their soil

and killed their trees. Who, me? I don’t know squat.
The gorgeous nebula when napalm bursts
is fun from up on high. I’ll tell you what.
Phosphorus bombs beat all your Damien Hirsts.

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