Welcome to wine-and-dine, sir, care to try our house specialty?
Here is the star-spangled banner: tell the aliens that
this is what we stand for. Fifty-stars-thirteen-white-stripes—
and now the anthem plays. Take off your hat and
sing the song you owe us
while our chefs prepare some children noodle soup,
one by one til the bodies roll over
with their glass-gaze staring
while the water boils.
As tears of joy run past your cheeks,
tears of lead will rip men open. Come,
drink the blood of the free and the brave.
Smoke, flame, iron bite: let the dish have flavor. New delicacy: heart of
woman, honey-drenched—but the flowers are
all dead now.
The cooks are ready with your entree. Waiter, waiter—seasoning, please.
Allow me to offer some ground-up
death, our finest
spices yet. What brand? shooting, of course.
Is five thousand this year
enough
or is that just too bland?
Last year’s favorite: forty-thousand. I’ll pour the spice
til you say stop (I highly doubt you’ll say it).
Some tell the dead
fly high, remember
their skin made porous
with raining bullets,
but in this restaurant our cooks will show you
gravity never fails.