Funny, all he can think of now is Mama

in the kitchen bakin' bread. Lots of pipin' hot

fresh-outa-the-oven bread, loaves and loaves.

Funny how he can smell it, the hot wafts

billowing as Mama shakes the loaves

from their pans, and they're just beggin' to be

pulled apart and slathered with sweet, salty butter

even 'fore they're cool enough to cut.

Funny how he can see Mama in her calico

apron, her auburn locks haphazardly tied back,

one or two stray strands ticklin' her nose. That's why

there's flour all over her face an' hair, from pushin'

it outa' her eyes with the back of her hand.

Funny how the sight makes him laugh 'cause

she's always so serious and now she looks

like an albino raccoon, an' she doesn't even know it.

Even as she takes the big bread knife

that she won't let him use for a pirate sword

and slices the bread like it was perforated

in that spot, smooth as can be.

Funny how he can feel the spongy, warm slab

of yeasty cake in his hands all drippin' and oozy

with butter ready to trickle and tickle his chin

at first bite.

Funny how he doesn't know what he really smells,

really feels, really sees, really tastes, is the decay of

rotting flesh and the maggot-crawlin' blood of his

fallen comrades, dead where they fell, beside him.

Funny this should be his final thought layin' here,

still as can be, not sure if he's alive or dead

pretty sure he's dead, or gonna' be real soon

a thousand miles away from Mama

and fresh baked bread.

Funny the last thing he should be thinkin' about on this earth

is exactly what he was there fightin' for in the first place.