“He did what? Dial Gerry,” said General Eisenhower, “thank you.”
Of course he never dialed his own phone why would he? His Soldiers wouldn’t like it, anyway.
“Get me a bird!” He proclaims, in a half-serious half-dark nonchalant tone which troubles no-one.
“You remember, when Patton took a leak?”
They both were.
“Don’t talk to Kim Il-Sung. Like that.”
- “Say again!”
- “He speaks better English than us. He’s a red.”
“Oh. Oh, no.” Said MacArthur.
“Yeah,” said his contemporary, “shucks well.”
“This is bad for my career!”
Among other things, thought an Aide-de-camp.
“Is there anything you can do? Dwight!”
“No. Why? This is excellent. I decided.”
Eisenhower pushes MacArthur.
“Galaxy of stars footballs rules!”
He hated that fucking corncob pipe shit.
“Goddamn Douglas, El Supremo?”
The two tankers, the tied up third man, not a tank commander, solo supplement heard what they saw, and never heard from again, thought of eclastic engineers. Making best speed for those punks, closetbreaking flags of our fathers, on behalf of daddy, raced tracks across DMZ.
Tits out suicide tank while Red hitched to the left of a tread, thrown under and over again, thought of doorways. Hands the size of tomcap.
Doorways. Consequences. Dams.
Tom in gloves NY, Throwin’ beanpoles Manhattan.