© M. Keaton, 2003
My
Centaur Thinks Half-Assed
Get
up in the morning, got my job to do,
Head
out for the highway, hum a little tune.
Men
run past into my home—
Not
IRS or ATF (I miss my old Gestapo).
These
guys are not from homeland but a place across the sea.
(Most
times it's only local cops who take my stuff from me.)
Invaders
burn my Bible, shoot my dog.
(That's
how I know they're foreign—not the Bible, but the dog.)
They
flew in with explosives, Dr. Strangelove would be proud.
Blew
my piggy house down, drew the cameras, got their crowd.
Now
I'm mad, my day is shot, I gotta go to war;
Grab
a gun and overseas to try and fix the score.
Bloody
sand and love of country, protect the fatherland—
(I
can buy another Bible but my dog, he was a man.)
These
days it's more a motherland, suckling welfare at its breast:
Damn
the plan; it's how I feel, Oprah's on at twelve and there's a test.
No
grit in these boys' backbones, thank God my dad's a man—
Fellers
with two mommies die on foreign sand.
Welcome
to the jungle and don't dare go to sleep
Bombs
will dig our foxholes, craters six foot deep.
Running
out of men and women close behind.
Bloody
fool from Cali nearly lost his mind.
"I'm
just here for college, man. The money's
good for me."
Don't
want to fight; wants his mom; thinks freedom should be free.
I'll
write his folks if I live, public school though—they can't read.
Enemy
before me, camera's film for news at nine,
Centaurs
on the battlefield, man in front and ass behind.
"No
blood for oil," one yells to prove he has no mind.
The
enemy paid me a house call, people are so blind.
Centaurs
never care, Woodstock echoes in their brain—
A
half-man falls and looks confused.
"I said, Not in my name."
Time
to breathe, eat from a tube, urinate upon a tire.
"Hate
the blasted Centaurs," I sputter full of fire.
My squadmate
laughs, "Worst part is that they are on our side.
They
drag us down at every step and we can't scratch their hides."
"How
do you stop a Centaur?" ask I, thinking evil thoughts.
Buddy
laughs and reads my mind. "We
don't have what we ought.
NEA
has undermined us, state run ed keeps 'em safe from grunts like us
Weapons
of mass instruction would turn them all to dust."
Roll
under razor wire and drop in a hand-dug trench;
My
enemy, he soils himself, wants to run, I know the stench.
He's
unarmed; I'd let him go but a Centaur grabs me gun—
Hands
him mine and pats my head. "Play
fair, boys. It's more fun.
Not
right you're rich when others poor," the half-man lectures me.
The
enemy has had too much and turns around to flee…
I
pull a pistol, shoot him dead, squarely in the back;
Good
intentions by the Centaur put us both upon this track.
Limey
in the trench beside me: "Hey,
Yank, fancy a fag?"
In
peacetime I'd have slugged him; in war, I take a drag.
"How's
taxation with representation working out?" he asks and smiles.
I
laugh and shake his hand, first friendly face for miles.
"Fools
back in my Parliament say no guns and we'd have no war.
They
figure weakness as a strength, no common sense no more."
My
squaddie catches up. "Greece tried
that," he sighs,
"Rome
took them out so easily, I guess that they were right—
No
fight, no fight, you men see what I mean?"
I
don't, but green smoke's rollin' and it's time to flee the scene
Centaur
rears before me and bellows at my head
"Leave
them alone and they'll go home, wagging their tails behind 'em."
I
don't stop to argue, I just want an end, safer home for all our dogs.
I
leave them be and they'll reload, stop thinking like the Frogs.
I'd
vote against the Centaur but the ballot's been misprint
And
if the Dems don't lose it, some judge would redecide just what I meant.
Roll
into a crater, squadmate at my hip—good man and better soldier.
He's
been around a while, out here among us kids it's clear that he is older.
"Any
ammo? I'm almost out." He shakes his head and tells me "No.
Centaur
took the last of mine, I've just a few rounds left to go;
He
sold my casings off to buy food for some kid in Africa—
Kid
prob'ly died some months ago but that don't deter the cause.
His
gov'ment'll sell the food, buy more guns, kill off some Whites.
It's
okay, it's all P.C. Let's get back in
this fight."
My
patron saint is Jane and Abrams is my Christ.
"Save
our boys," a half-man yells.
"Not worth American life!"
"Tell
that to my dog, you jerk." I'm
really getting riled.
"Better
with a gun than briefcase; better warrior than a child."
Then
I fight to save him because he's one of mine;
Wish
he'd remember that and try to act in kind.
When
I reach him, the sucker takes my gun.
"Budget
cuts; we can't afford. Abortions still
to fund."
I'm
better off than most, my buddy brought two swords.
"Same
darn thing as Hannibal," comes my partner's words.
"Rome
was on a platter and then they cut his funds.
Called
him home, said 'Rome's disarmed, the war's already won'."
I
know the rest. Carthage is gone, broken
down when Rome surprised.
Brit
says his people had an empire once but got comfortable and died.
We
fought on through the nights and then on through the days.
We
beat them bastards senseless even with Centaurs in the way.
They
surrendered fast as Frenchmen and I guessed my work was done;
I
headed for the camera tents but me mate caught me at a run.
"Stay
low and then stay quiet. War's over,
now lawyers pick the corpse.
They'll
charge you with a war crime—wait 'til you're told what to report."
I
shake him off and glare, angry as can be, "I brought freedom and
democracy."
"You
also gave them Centaurs, a nation of dependency.
It
steals away humanity, the rape of decency;
Just
wait until they fix the facts. You'd
best listen up to me."
Sweet
mary sunshine and dandelion wine;
We
got a hero's welcome then put out on the dime.
My
buddy lives in Harlem, called him up, made the time.
Said,
"I never got your name. You saved
my life and brung me home."
He
says, "They call me History, son, but now you're on your own."
I
stuffed that in my pipe but couldn't smoke it—new ordinance don't you know.
The
Centaurs still protect me, no matter where I go.
M.
Keaton, 2002