YOU'VE GOT TO THANK
THE CEASELESS PANIC
Well, Paris just ain't what it used to be : there's
yellow-fin tuna sold in a stall and the killers are
waltzing the stairway. How come we let bygones
be bygones when they're again right up front? I
can forgive nothing, or don't you understand.
Muzzle-headed Tangiers, and those madman
who cherish the Alps. Kill them, kill them all,
I say. As in Vietnam's backward days - 'There's
nothing like the smell of napalm in the morning.'
Ignore the border crossing and zone the malfeasants
out : send them to their Heaven on a fucking sled.