Yesterday I was a man,
now I’m a poor body
gnawed by the jungle’s worms
in some place of the earth.
My skin was white
my skin was black
my skin was yellow.
Now it’s like a rag of nothing,
hanging from rusty nail,
steeped by pus,
nibbled
by filthy beasts
and my poor soul,
if she exists,
now will be wandering
in the moist jungle,
yelling her damn’d anguish
to a blind & deaf god.
War is not a bullshit
for the gun’s makers
who make love
with their ritzy whores
in comfortable mansions,
sheltered from ugly death.
War is nice for them,
of course.
So many bombs so many dollars,
so many guns so many dollars,
so many tanks so many dollars.
But if you saw
unlucky beings be burnt
alive
by streams of napalm,
if you saw
the other guys
revenge themselves
like mad dogs
on other beings
groggy for breakdown,
then war is not a pleasant business,
but a damn disgusting thing
which breaks souls & bodies & balls,
stuffs the dry mouth
with a lot of foul mud.
Mad human fate,
allow me to rise
from my putrid grave,
to go back among the happy men
and to reveal to those sons of bitch
the tragic meaning of this crudeshit