Drowning in dog stew and strangled in vine. Blister wine
Burns the inside . . . (They flew in a line over poppy fields.
They’d drop and they’d blast their supply. On demand!
They persist. They pervert. They command: «RED alert.»
And green burns to yellow, to orange, to dirt covered
Baby bones in powder piles. Mile after mile. And a
Line costs a dime. A slaughter’s a quarter. Yes, the
Green God’s immortal, whispers «Peace in our time.» RED alert!
Here come the Green Gang . . . .
