TO PRESIDENT JACKSON, SECRETARY OF WAR.
But who might filch
From the Pluto-
From which one copper string con-
ducts the eel-(s)harp charge,
The eel-sharp charge that in-
dubitably puts to an icy rest–
with ruthless regard to these leatherbacks, smocks; not-
withstanding the corona-
virus’ smog now, already, beginning to self-destruct,
Reich over your own dear heads.
That it’s true, that they’d rather keep up their habit for spit-fire, rifling hot shot-gun cartons of nano-slugs at (Ja!, Ja!, Ja!) our kids.