Jesse James and the Green Berets

   
   "Jesse James and the Green Berets"
   
   Out in the bucolic boondocks, so pastoral and wickedly divine, the poverty pouring forth, yet the spirit of life and nature strong; plus, that of muscle car motors in the front yards; anyway, I knew a dude in that southern setting, a country boy named Jesse James--dude had a pet alligator.  I asked him if he could walk it on a leash.  He said:  "No, they're as dumb as shit."
   I held the alligator too.  It was in a water tank.  Weird crap.  Weirder than me.  His Dad with the Saint Andrew's Cross bumper sticker on the back of his beat up Cadillac; regardless, his Dad was tough--a Green Beret in Vietnam.  During training with a Drill Sergeant, they had a rubber knife with its blade marked black to prove if you could cut the muscular teacher.  Everybody failed save a Latino guy who was in a street gang from New York.
   Guy went at Sarge with the knife and Sarge went to block the dude's armed thrust; next, Latino dude flips the knife into his other hand and puts a black mark across the Sarge's throat.  Sarge was humbly like:  "Next."
   Indeed, you never know who you're messing with.  Whether an emaciated confederate soldier giving good fight or Doc Holliday only having 20% of his lung tissue functioning and yet still being able to gun down the cruelest of opprobrious thugs.  That's how it goes baby.  
   
   I'm a Green Beret; I drive a Chevrolet,
   Being Special Forces is one hell of a heyday . . .