Classic Poem

" Not the machete!" cried the young marine.
" Not with the sword!" I echoed. But its sheen
Lights up our underworld. The comets of pistols
Flash in our underworld. Fokkers and Bristols
Egg-dropping. The bomb-shit from their arses
Leaves its red trail among the fungus-masses.
" Not the machete!" screamed the youthful sailor.
" No. Bullets now!" I answered like a saviour:
" I heard he was with you boy, so I blew over."
And Death was there indeed, bailiff and drover.
I beat it up-town. Death was there as well.
I beat it back, from one to the other hell.
" Shoot me!" the sea-soldier screamed. " Not the machete!"
But Death had other ideas. He's not so matey —
He looks at things in a different light to us.
What he does he likes doing without fuss.
If in the jungle the knife-blade has flashed,
Then that is the weapon: so with that he slashed.