DC Playwrights

"i can't feel my legs,"
said the squirrel.
"everything is getting dark.
i'm so cold."

"wake up, squirrel. you're dreaming."
"but it seemed so real –
like i was at the front.
what do you think it means?

"i don't know," i said.
"maybe you're longing for a simpler time."
"a kinder and gentler time?"
sighed the squirrel.

"yes," i smiled,
"when white men ruled the world
with an iron victrola."
"what?" the squirrel asked.

"a time when
all men were brothers,"
i continued,
"and settled their differences
like gentlemen
with mustard gas and flame throwers."

"good times," yawned the squirrel
"it's a long way to tipperary," i cooed,
as we began to dream
of verdun and the dardenelles.