Buttocks Against The Bomb

And where will you go when this war is over?

And where will you go when this war is done?

I’ll go to Nebraska, where the sun eats the flowers

And the wind sweeps the desert – or is that Arizona? –

And the coyotes respect gallantry and service

And there’s only one bar, and it’s a hundred miles from the                     garage

And the folks are all humble and say nothing to disparage

The priests who are praying for the soul of Sam Milton,

Who died from a bullet in the head.

And what will you do when this war is over?

And what will you do when this war is done?

I’ll take off my trousers in front of the ladies

And wiggle my bum in the face of executives

And sing Strauss’s late songs in a Japanese accent

And nab me a catfish for supper on Thursday

And gut and stuff it with onions on Friday

And drink bourbon with Harry and make eyes at his wife

And go back to my hotel room with a tart from Arkansas

And fall asleep.

And what will you feel when this war is over?

And what will you feel when this war is done?

I’ll feel my testicles to check they’re in order

And the smooth, rounded buttocks of the tart from Arkansas,

That’s if she hasn’t fled with my money

And left me a note saying: “Sorry, honey,

“I’ve fled with your money.”

And I’ll feel liberal indignation, mixed with patriotic doubt

And I’ll feel like Roosevelt repealing prohibition:

Time for a beer.