a poem by Richard Fein
the resolute forces of good form a firm battle line.
And every Prince Valiant and GI Joe
stands shoulder to shoulder, sweating in his armor
against every Attila the Hun and Genghis Khan.
But before the oh-so-trite clash of swords and shields,
each gladiator desires his it's-a-good-day-to-die last toast.
Out come the goblets, sheepskin flasks, canteens
and emergency anti-dehydration kits.
And each white knight and each black knight
offers his comrades-in-arms a drink
for sharing of fluids binds them together.
Then the bugler toots a charge and the psych-warfare personnel
flood the dawn air with rousing sound bites.
And that golden sun poised below the horizon,
rises to cast morning light on all the shadowy faces
and to cast a deeper shadow called doubt.
Then the front lines of both sides pass out,
followed by the second, third, and tenth,
all dead drunk.
Thus, the invincible army of good
and every conscript in the unbeatable army of evil,
all the avenging angels of both Jehovah and El Supremo Bad Guy
snore in their piss-stained pants.