through seaside fogs,
-singing worn out songs
that longed for danger,
and complained about the chow.
Songs about lovers stolen
by some universal seducer
named Jodie.
We watched our tracer rounds
hit targets in the seaside dunes.
They glowed like fireflies at noon.
We were country boys
and city boys
and even some
suburban boys.
All shorn and shaved,
so who could tell
who was me and who was you?
Just meat of various cuts and flavors,
sweating and swearing
in unison and wearing
the obligatory
olive drab cotton.
The drill sergeants barked
Do you miss your mama?
as they strutted beside
our ranks and columns.
We froze in formation
trying not to blink
or flinch, to show them
how tough we were?
Convinced that we were ready
but they knew it was a thin
tissue of self deception, a vanity
that would be torn away soon enough
in tropical horror or boredom
and there would be
no more singing as we ran:
Sittin’ on the mountain top
beatin on a drum.
Beat so hard that the MP’s come
MP, MP, don't arrest me,
arrest that guy
behind the tree.
He stole the whiskey,
I stole the wine.
Now all I do is double time.
Gimme your left, your left,
your left right left.
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