Drop The Bombs

In Southern China, a fat old commie entrepeuner is washing viagra
down with a tonic made of tiger balls.
20,000 Leagues beneath the sea, the liver of an electric eel is
struggling with the mercury created in the production of this
pen.
At a posh private school in Malibu, a future president is bullying a
nerd who will someday write the great American novel.
In Jamacia, a man with grey dreads is entertaining a crowd of ice-cream
cone sporting tourists by doing a headstand on a beer mug.
In Bombay, a sweet young tech-support unit is up late, reverently
turning the pages of "The Bhagavita."
In Sweden, Bjorn Borg, dressed entirely in his own clothing line, is
receiving service from a model who loves him for his valour on the
tennis court.
Outside Fallujah, a Marine lieutenant is using his lap-top to buy Apple
stock, which has tripled in the past year; next month it will drop one
tenth and his mother will be killed at a poorly designed american
intersection.
In a galaxy far, far away, three-headed university students are
furiously scribbling notes as they watch Hitler speak at the Berlin
Olympics, our first broadcast into space.
On the African Serengeti, a teen antelope with so much to live for is
sprinting faster than he ever has before to escape a lithe older
lioness; a 31 year old British babe is congratulating herself on a
smashing picture.
In Alaska, a twelve year old girl, whose father is slaving away on a
fishing schooner, is deciding if Jay-Z or Fabolos is more talented;
She's going to click on Fabolos.
In Guam, I'm listening to a bible-thumping meth dealer jack off in the
bunk below me as I wistfully watch a grove of palm trees sway in the
wind through a barred window.
John Lennon said, "But if you're talking about destruction, you know
you can count me out."
But I say, "You know, you can go ahead and drop those bombs."