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The madness of men is marked
by the sound signatures
of a thousand nuclear submarines
divorced from the forties' gales,
humming through the great black deeps
and watching puzzled the gentle whales.

Whistling and clicking in place of no light
their huge bulks tracked in softened red glow
by man's computer banks in soulless rows,
so far below, so far below.

And startling light on a frosty morn
with mushroom pails and neutrons spawned
and sun-bright roar on horizon's sills,
mutually assured and overkill
from deep below, so deep below.

And way down there the sperm-whales weep
as killer subs play hide and seek
full speed ahead and sounding deep
while megatons do launch and throw
from way below, from way below.

A billion eyes all looking high
at sonic booms and missiles sigh
and great sea waves all rolling in
amongst the fire and awful din
way down below, way down below.

Shadows etched and rads all retched
no time for kids from school to fetch
and the whales all cry and try to hide
in the deep and boiling tides
so far below, so far below.

John A. Moller
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR


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