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War Song

Happiness is a hot gun
And the work you’ve done
Punching small holes at more than arm’s reach.
If we die, we may die, but going forward—
Not for me the indignity of “Clerk killed, on his
knees, exit wound in the forehead.”
I’ll put out a few lights before they score on me.
Let my epitaph read, “If his hands were cold,
his guns were warm.
     He was a terror to his enemies
          (never the reverse)
               in his mortal form.”