War, The Beautiful Dance

Alexander the Grape,
October 14

War. Ahh, yes. My mistress since my birth, and the plague of humanity since it rose to rule the world. War.
As I awake in my tent, putting on my boots, I often think about it. War. Is war merely a collection of scared children, squabbling over nothing, or is it a ballet of death, beautifully dancing as it builds up a new meaning for existance?
No, no it is more than that, much more.

It is funny.
I watch my soldiers train, and I laugh. "You will soon all be dead!" I want to scream to them. Of course, I do not, careful not to lower morale. I have seen empires rise and fall, all on the lifeless backs of boys like those I now train. I wonder if they contemplate their part in all of this, or if they simply do their marches, their rifle drills, and their dance recitals oblivious to the grand tides of history that will soon crush them.
Sometimes I contemplate small donuts. Although tiny, they could easily overwhelm their larger brethren, becoming kings. Maple bars, however, could be a problem.
The leotards have not yet arrived. How am I to start a war, a ballet of death, without leotards? Ahh, how the gods test a soldier. Proud of his accomplishment, my lack of leotards, I am sure Satan, laughing, spreads his wings. Perhaps we should invade a country with the clothing we require. The recently founded Gap Empire is growing strong, maybe too strong.
No! I cannot let my focus stray from my target. To do so could be disastrous. That is exactly what General Lloyd Weber wants: a small show of weakness on my part. Soon you will regret your mistakes, General, very soon. Soon your lands will be soaked in blood, your Tony awards covered in fake cat fur and the lifestream of those who serve under you.
Mars, give me strength!
I am almost apologetic for my actions at times. Almost. It is, however, my destiny. I am a War Pop, the beginning and the end. History, whether she is kind to me or not, will remember me. For I will keep the dance going; the battle will rage, whirlpools of death as I float above it all, like Cap'n Crunch floats to the top of milk.
Yes, war is hell. None could tell you that better than my former adversary could. But, Cap'n, would you not also tell me it is beautiful? If only you could talk to me, from the depths of Davey Jones' Locker. Of course you cannot, and instead I stare at your admiral's cap, my momento of your defeat. Reminder of a battle raged long ago.

Pheobus continues his path across the heavens, and I am beckoned to move, to attack. I slip on my toga, rest my branch atop my head, and smile.
I am a War Pop.
Let all tremble!


	Alexander the Grape, October 14 War. Ahh, yes. My mistress since my birth, and the plague of humanity since it rose to rule the world. War. As I awake in my tent, putting on my boots, I often think about it. War. Is war merely a collection of scared children, squabbling over nothing, or is it a ballet of death, beautifully dancing as it builds up a new meaning for existance? No, no it is more than that, much more. It is funny. I watch my soldiers train, and I laugh. "You will soon all be dead!" I want to scream to them. Of course, I do not, careful not to lower morale. I have seen empires rise and fall, all on the lifeless backs of boys like those I now train. I wonder if they contemplate their part in all of this, or if they simply do their marches, their rifle drills, and their dance recitals oblivious to the grand tides of history that will soon crush them. Sometimes I contemplate small donuts. Although tiny, they could easily overwhelm their larger brethren, becoming kings. Maple bars, however, could be a problem. The leotards have not yet arrived. How am I to start a war, a ballet of death, without leotards? Ahh, how the gods test a soldier. Proud of his accomplishment, my lack of leotards, I am sure Satan, laughing, spreads his wings. Perhaps we should invade a country with the clothing we require. The recently founded Gap Empire is growing strong, maybe too strong. No! I cannot let my focus stray from my target. To do so could be disastrous. That is exactly what General Lloyd Weber wants: a small show of weakness on my part. Soon you will regret your mistakes, General, very soon. Soon your lands will be soaked in blood, your Tony awards covered in fake cat fur and the lifestream of those who serve under you. Mars, give me strength! I am almost apologetic for my actions at times. Almost. It is, however, my destiny. I am a War Pop, the beginning and the end. History, whether she is kind to me or not, will remember me. For I will keep the dance going; the battle will rage, whirlpools of death as I float above it all, like Cap'n Crunch floats to the top of milk. Yes, war is hell. None could tell you that better than my former adversary could. But, Cap'n, would you not also tell me it is beautiful? If only you could talk to me, from the depths of Davey Jones' Locker. Of course you cannot, and instead I stare at your admiral's cap, my momento of your defeat. Reminder of a battle raged long ago. Pheobus continues his path across the heavens, and I am beckoned to move, to attack. I slip on my toga, rest my branch atop my head, and smile. I am a War Pop. Let all tremble!