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Mai Ling crept down the road,
took my lieutenant by the throat,
left her mark slashed him in the dark;
took his boots and cigarettes
quietly across the moat.

My lonely wife back home
put out her flame with vibrating wands.
Such cavorting in the dark
took off her spark, erased
the memory of me she knew.

Then she bought a see-through dress,
brushed up her hair then down,
painted her nails seductive red,
tissued between her toes and took,
as they sing in the song,
her love to town.

I thought when I dreamed
I dreamed only about the war,
but comes a scene in a mythical town
in southern France. There on a pile
of severed heads a girl sucks straws
for 50 cents, standing topless in bikini pants.

In whirls of appeals I pleaded my case
not to be sent to the East,
but too late for Canadian defection
came the War Department rejection
in a letter not even sealed.

As it happened
I left my legs to the bloody crotch
rotting in an onion field.

      — Don Taylor