Kentucky Fried Son of a Bitch
War - it's good for something, Edwin,
like keeping munitions factories steadily employed
rather than earnings gone on horses, booze,
ass-grooves impressed so deep on bar-stools
archaeologists in 500,000 years 
might consider them
completely different species 
- anonymous maximus;
War gave us Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sasoon, 
Richard Whidmark, Florence Nightingale, 
dogs who carry honorary ranks
Walt Disney make wholly distorted films about, 
but hey -
it's all good, Edwin.
Sometimes I feel like a Kentucky Fried Son of a Bitch
having these conversations 
over and over. 
How Dresden and Coventry
united us as a global community,
yin and yang like two sages
sitting beside me, neither satisfied
at how far I will take them, before the fluttering wings of 
waitresses twist on the stench of spilled draught
and bathroom odours, reminding me of wars still raging.
Yeah, he's a Kentucky fried son of a bitch
they say,
passing elbows elbows nudge me like shells pounding on 
Dresden and Coventry. The thrill of it all.

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