306. wombat was wild in the gun-turret, timed

wombat was wild in the gun-turret, timed
to the bomber that sped through the deep purple night —
he thought for a moment, before it exploded,
how empty the earth is above it when floating

wombat was ace at shooting up planes,
but he hadn’t got words for road, camel, cake
(and plenty more, too) — his brain was not used
when staff-sergeant quiz night collected for food

he had to be strapped to the gun (50 magnum —
war nerds, don’t write in, it rhymed so that matters)
to keep him forgetting what firing direction
(out, but not in, said the airplane inspectors)

they tell you its mad to bomb with wombats
but harthur k. hucknall, the brigadier, DAMN
(whatever will work, force, air, exports)
a year’s supply pork belly’s gone suddenly short

harther had hopes, brash, bully, polls
that told him the average soldier corrosive (is),
won’t last the trip UK to berlin
before dropping their payload offline outside linz

harther had paced in his sitting room spaced
with six settees, two cupboards, three china tables,
to wrack from his bean a plan air and sea (for),
but all he could manage was DON’T BOMB WITH LEMURS

bears are too big, and horses too thick
(stupid, too dumb to direct all the switches),
beavers require too much wood, water, wire,
notebooks for scrapbooking, rivers, and time

bugs are too flighty, dogs are too slimy,
artichokes awful at killing with knives, they
don’t have the gene for stabbing, and cheetahs
can’t get their legs to fit under the seat

harther’s dilemma (he later confessed to
a catholic priest on the live news at seven)
is if you’re to strap to a bomber an animal
it’s got to be one that works well with maps
(cont.)