Guilty, not guilty: the line is fine,
I can hear you clearly, or not at all.
It takes mistakes to make a man,
and I am pleased, appalled to see
you, me, sitting in the dock, in the
dock of the bay, wasting away.
Scoundrel, hound dog: our whoops
sound so similar. Napalm, no palm,
you may be right, you may be wrong
as the song, dirge goes. Things may
come, things may go, but the
malady lingers on. Off. I see you nod.
Agree, asleep. Bombing is such
an inexact science, part art. Highbrow,
low. I wonder who’s Kissinger now.