“The problem is the fucker didn’t blow,”
says Sergeant Hansen, giving us his look
of “stupid private-dickheads.”  But we know
he’s smart enough to fix it by-the-book.
The dynamite looks like a pile of shit,
although the turds are perfect tubes of red.
There’s forty-seven stinking pounds of it
all heaped down-range.  Which one of us is dead?
We “dickheads” who are certain that the blame
for all that unexploded shit should fall
on someone else, still wait to hear the name
of which of us will check the fuse.  The call
comes quickly as our sergeant gives a shout:
“You dickheads wait right here.  I’ll check it out.”

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