The Ranch Hand's Babies, Part 2 of 3
Sixties Secret Agent
In black and orange inks
some wag had stenciled,
"no need for tests -
for use on dinks".
Gung-ho. Can-do.
Make war, not love.
You hit puberty, and find
you're the biggest kid on the block.
Time to throw some weight around.
Buy yourself a Glock.
Damn this forest.
They don't play fair.
We'll catch 'em in the open
with our phosphorescent flares.
We invented cocaine drinks,
electric chairs, chop suey -
let's have us a little think:
claymores, napalm, hueys.
If only we could find a way
to murder all these trees:
if all this life were scalded, flayed,
and shriveled till it dropped away,
poisoned, sickly, palsied, grey,
then Charlie, skulking somewhere
out there
would show up in our lenses' stare
and we could bring our guns
to bear.
So. Get it done.
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