On the subject of war and nothing else, planes and bombs curry favor with friends in the lowest of places. They're not your sons and daughters. They were given to the queen of hearts by the king on the white plantation. Creeping along the fences of the gutters where the rats ride the waters and carry the disease of war to sea. A thousand heads in a green gunny sack, carried by the corpses of fathers because the mother-fuckers weren't enough. But let's not worry about these things for now. We'll count the bodies on Tuesday after tea, when the people grow weary of the evening news. Pass out the crack and automatic guns, so everyone will be armed and ready to fight. Because if you're going to kill people, You may as well do it right.