They say WWII was no great sin; I guess the
next one won't be either. Not until we give
up on the numbers will they really count.
The concept somehow remains, you
understand, without the Roman numerals.
The good thing about it all, I suppose, is
the higher they go up, those Roman things,
the more difficult they get. Who remembers
There's a tank on a lawn in Westfield or
somewhere, supposing to commemorate
the dead - what better way to go? Those
wobbly veterans, pooped on their beers
and shots, still try to stand erect. Saluting
their luck, or saluting just chance.
Somewhere out behind them all, across the
wild-splashed world, are graves and graves
and graves of all they've done, or what's
been done to them. It really doesn't matter.
They fought for something, and that's
what counts, no matter how bamboozled