It's an old profession 

  of subtle artillery. 

Rough wheels meshing --- 

  button out, button in. 



The tall General will mine 

  a few bridges tonight, 

  stroking soft machinery. 

Fanfare at dawn 

  courting green steel 

  lined up for World War One 

  (Two, Three, Four). 



It's an old profession 

  of subtle artillery. 

Rough wheels meshing --- 

  on a landscape with no trees. 



The tall General points 

  to the distance --- 

  disconnects his power supply. 

Writes a stiff note to his nearest 

  and dearest --- 

  he takes the battle plan 

  and contemplates his fly. 



The tall General 

  flies by the seat of history. 

The tall General 

  is crossing. 

The tall General 

  he thinks inevitability. 

The tall General 

  is definitely crossing. 

With spit and with polish --- 

  time for desperate measures. 

The pain in the forehead 

  from holding up to the pressures 

  of life on the rim 

  of the convenient alliance. 

Out on the rim --- 

  let me out on the rim. 



The tall General will walk 

  across the compound 

  with his briefcase and I.D. 

Later they'll post him 

  seemingly missing --- 

  he's gone to be a Generalski.