Wait until Morris gets here, the settlers told the Guerillas.
The notorious gang laughed without an ounce of concern.
They had encountered tough opponents, and reigned victorious.
Where is Morris? Someone whispered. Others began to whisper it too.
Morris must be some badass, the head of the gang thought.
It would be fun to put Morris in his place.
A blonde-headed woman came over the hill.
She was followed by an enormous over-sized grizzly bear.
“Here’s Morris!” the settlers said, as if it was a mantra.
The guerillas scattered and fled.
Thinking Morris was the bear.
Morris was actually the blonde.
She did not put up with trouble from anyone.
She used to be a nun.
Crawling down the tunnels
Of Chu Chi
I could almost imagine
The Viet Kong guerillas
Hiding deep under the tunnels
As the land above is turned
Into a temporary dessert
With the vegetation burned off
By napalm and agent orange
The Viet Kong creep out at night
Stealing onto the bases
Stealing weapons, food, supplies
And occasionally killing soldiers
In their sleep
The US soldiers
Stay on base at night
Terrified of the mosquitos
And of the Viet Kong
the ghosts
Surround me
Telling me their stories
And at last I fled
Through the emergency escape tunnel
Declaring victory
Profoundly shaken up
By the ghosts of the Chu Chi tunnels
Deadly chemicals
parked in the cargo hold
of an American military plane
Destination: the jungles of Vietnam
Guerillas in the mist ...
communism with an Asian face
is on the uptick
It's the 60's, man
Free love don't like none of that
paid warring
Progressive rock-n-roll got a hippie soul,
but seeing flags burning make patriotic blood boil
Peaceful protesting
on college campuses all across the American soil,
a generation of Flower childs blossoming
While over in Vietnam,
war is cultivating a crop of pain
Weather forecast says: each mourn come dawn,
expect sixteen tons of napalm rain
Tell me who fights a war whose goal is not to win,
but to just stick to the failed mission
Every evening fuel up the planes,
to dust crop those fields of burning dreams
Orders are to ratchet up the suffering,
by laying down more napalm rain
As the next generation of Flower children start bursting,
old hearts wonder:
Will those new killing fields ever grow hope again?
Zany
yeomen
xrayed
Whales
virtually
unconcious,
twice!
Stating:
"Rare
quacking
persisted
on
nightime
meanderings!"
Later,
kinky
journalists
investigated
Hamas
guerillas
found
eating
Duck,
commenting
'bout
America!
Early this morning, as I walking down to my lesson
I passed my Irish colleague returning from a Shakespearean session
Perhaps still thinking about the Bard, the King and the fool
As he gingerly traversed the minefield that is Simba School.
Oh! Mines and missiles inundate this scholastic terrain
And on one’s agility do place much physical strain
For teachers must side-step discarded bags and litter
Or the ballistic speed of some gossip-crazed critter.
Such is the volatility and unpredictability on this battleground
That careless missilery does ruthlessly abound
Ready for another, untimed, dubious, un-aimed at launch
That might sock our Economist upon his paunch.
Of course, primitive methods, such as those David used
Might upon our historian or accountant be abused
As a bag-load of books might catapult through the air
And catch you on the forehead, full and square.
It’s a battleground, this, the halls of Simba School
Where “badly-uniformed” guerillas vociferously rule!
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