At my post, I feel like a giant beating drums,
and calculate a bombardment that will rock
clouds, heavy as pears, green with poison.
Pink flowers of exploding shells will deck the ship
like a party, though dazzle-painted to invisibility.
I have learnt the art of seeing through camouflage,
and it won’t prevent me pin-pointing your position.
I wait until conditions are perfect to maximise
impact, before releasing poisonous fumes,
vivid and brief as a comet. Vaporised bodies
are imprinted onto the deck surrounding you.
Sickly and weak, you don’t project the right image
of a survivor, and your story will be repressed
by your leader, and unknown beyond your country.