Bathroom Wars

It's toilet time
And the bathroom's in his sights.
His gunship unzips the air
Down to the seat of power,
Where tense expectant staff await
His sign,
As he alights.

On landing,
He can sense the feverish crowd
Of crews,
Cramming, ramming;
The slide and click
Of magazines and missiles,
Deadly armed
And ready for the task,
Of making news.

Behind him,
Tanks fire up in throaty roars,
Belching smoke and raising dust,
As they begin to make
Their move,
Muster,
Close their heavy doors.

Soldiers stir in trenches,
Taut with tension,
Standing by their firing benches

Fearful anticipation balloons
Into the early morning silence,
Hovers,
Frets,
Counting down,
Til punctured by the sudden spike
And rush
Of low flying jets.

The flash of guns,
Missile tracks,
Streaks of tracer
And sprinkled shock wave flowers
Of flame
And debris
Lit the sky,
Announcing many men
Would surely die.

Tiny figures swarm into the half-light
In one convulsive
Wave,
Crackling small arms,
Shouting,
Crying out
Crescendos
Of explosive sound,
Dying down into the clank
And grind
Of armored trucks,
Moving through the captured ground
That shudders underneath
Their weight,
Crushing corpses in their wake
And telling all
Who come behind
Just what's at stake.

Fighting flairs
As mop up squads
Clear stickier pockets,
With added help
From bombs and rockets.

It is such relief
To see the sun,
Come up
Though still in part
Obscured,
By mists of battle
Fought and won,
To warm the cold night air
And silhouette the armoured hulks
Of burnt out tanks.

As he lifts off 
With full on power,
A final burst
Will flush them down.
This is,
No doubt,
His finest hour.

The commander surveys all
Within the mirror,
Sees his handsome face
And a real chance,
At next year's presidential race,
Then adjusts his hair
To return as favored son,
To a nation sure,
That all that he could do,
Was done.