Officer's Mess After we sliced the tendons at the wrists and ankles, the knees and elbows, it was easy to put out the eyes. They just flopped around in the sand, waiting to die. Then the big ones came in, high up, wave on wave, like roto-tilling the garden--only fifty feet deep-- the mop-up crew couldn't even identify what we beat. They were offering a deal a minute on the last day, but top brass just chorused, "I can't hear you, MAGGOT," and ran them under as fast as tanks could shag it. Nothing could have stopped us from going all the way; that was decided by some committee in Toon Town. Can't say what we won, but we have the process down. Poem © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved. Engraving © Greg Lago. All rights reserved.