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. Crites 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.