A knife may open envelopes, spread butter,
Cut a length of string, carve wooden toys,
Slice meat at table, or de-bone a fish—
Serve other simple, salutary tasks.
So does a rifle, when it brings down game;
Helmets might be planters; ammo cans
Serve as convenient tool chests, and recall:
The scriptures say a sword becomes a ploughshare.
Most combat gear can be turned round and used
For purposes nonviolent and benign.
But you have one aim only: to deal death
Impartially to all within your range—
You send your heavy bullets to rip flesh
As dogs rend helpless rabbits limb from limb.
Incendiary rounds spat from your mouth
Tear vehicles apart, make them explode
In flaming fragments. Those inside are scorched
To lumps of charred and blistered meat. You smash
Great holes in concrete walls and armor plate.
Nothing withstands the hot blast of your muzzle.
Browning M-2 (called “Ma Deuce” by the troops)—
You were conceived to do this single thing:
Kill, and kill as fast and brutally
As an unthinking engine does its job
When stitching cloth, or punching index cards,
Or minting coins from rows of shiny planchets,
Or striking cancellation marks on stamps.
You swallow endless belts of ammunition
While empty cartridge cases fall in piles
As thick as corpses heaped up on the field.
You are the emblem of our modern wars:
Mechanical, impersonal, devoid
Of honor, chivalry,
esprit de corps,
Or any martial swagger of