Mom what are these snails, with blood and sweat trails? lumbering mountians, hauling heavy shells, jumping in beer--killing themselves, Why do they still patrol the garden flag poles, writhing in pain, salt in flesh--burning holes, Mother, the neighbors have no flag, but they have a saltshaker to wave? crushed shell--only way they listen to them, rejoicing--at salted skin--wetly glistening.
But I feel I must do the same, Well before the recruiter came, I know what he sells, The salty brimstone of hell, But these Blood Sweat Snails in the dirt, Jumping on grenades, Absorbing brimstone bursts. Truly are the salt of the Earth.