Bent over, in his army-issue slacks,
the sergeant puts my hormones in a rush:
that titivating sweat-trail down his back!
His pert posterior – so lithe! So lush!
Though, when asleep, we dream we once liked boob
and girls’ affections – now, to those, we’re blind
for, since the Yanks attacked, we’ve grabbed the lube
and aimed our cross-hairs at the other kind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling –
we pinch each other’s butts through dirt and grime.
We paw and grope; our inhibitions crumbling,
we tumble in erotic pantomime.
The sergeant never noticed til tonight
how handsome his platoon are; now he finds
that somehow, he’s not in the mood to fight
his Privates are the one thing on his mind.
The battlefield was once a bloody place,
a sea of blood. Now watch the Major grin,
a nude lieutenant sitting on his face,
enjoying some unbridled carnal sin!
If you could hear, at every thrust, the moans
of ecstasy, you’d muse – I know I am –
it’s worse to be blown up than to be blown
and, surely, you’d give thanks to Uncle Sam.
Make love, not war: the hippies thought it best,
for killing is against the will of God. And me?
I’ll just say: Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria sodomi.