In war everyone
carries something
for good luck
and protection.

A rabbit's foot,
a piece of twine,
their girl friend's
*******.

I had a mantra.

It was simply,
**** me.

When the ****
got hot and thick
and the tracers
reached out
their lovely,
lethal fingers

I would chant:
**** me, **** me,
**** me, **** me,

perhaps thinking
god would hear

and say,

for christ's sake
**** him and
get it over with,

but god was AWOL
(as usual)

so it worked
and I lived.

  ~mce