When Lt. O'Malley faced the firing squad
his memories popped, German gibberish
gobbled his brain. His mother's
foul whiskey breath bathed him in gold light.
The time he saw his sister naked ripped across his mind.
"Pervert, pervert," she screamed.
He remembered the time he stole a baseball from the corner store.
The cop who beat him senseless.
Baseball, there's a sport.
Truly, a man's game.
The Germans spat on him.
They began to organize a lineup.
He lost his virginity in that Irish ghetto.
Found a case of festering VD.
His first love a simple street girl on the corner,
with cigar burns and busted teeth.
Did Jim ever pay him back for his last food ration?
Oh, Jim, his brains now part of the French coastline.
He had all the best baseball cards.
Hours of fighting gone down the crapper.
Well, to death do us part.
His fourth grade teacher cut his wrists with that damn ruler.
Penance, Penance, and more Penance.
He shouldn't pull his pickle, or it will fall off.
Nuns are daft hens anyhow.
His last memory, his first baseball game.
He hoped those boys had good aim.
Then the crowd began to cheer.
His mother drunk in the stands
and his sister waving.
Jim, the umpire, with his brains
bubbling through the wired mask.
Then the Germans marched onto the field.
He swung the bat.
Lt. O'Malley died after that,
somewhere between first and second base.