Funny how these men refuse to die. Try as I may,
I can’t get any of them to stand still long enough
To take the bullet, drink the poison, or just say
“Take me, my time has come”. It’s not as if they’re tough
Or that they evince anything like an appetite for life.
They don’t. A more bilious, sickly crew you couldn’t hope to meet
In a long day’s march. I tried using a knife
On one man's throat, but he continued to bleat.
I’ve used guns, runaway buses, diseases and even plagues of locusts,
But they just laugh in my face: “Haha, we’re still standing!”
I pitched one of them out of an aeroplane (which was somewhat bogus)
But he contrived a happy landing.
I’ve done everything I can. Buried them alive, bashed them with heavy hoses,
Even dropped grand pianos on top of them,
But they crawl out every time, smelling of roses.
I wish I could take a flamethrower to the lot of them.
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