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THE NAPALM STRIKE

The silver jets begin their fall
from way up high in Bien Hoa's sun,
napalm pods all tumbling down
the liquid splashes, slurges, splurges
slither fast through green and brown.

Bubble, bubble, boil and bubble
gurgle, roil and smoking rubble,
napalm creep and gobble, gobble
orange sheeting flame
horror in your name.

Burning trees, men on their knees
with melted mouth and silent shout,
tongues of fire within your ears
singe and melt and disappear
burnt match-head men.

John A. Moller
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR

 

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