Casualty report

From the Saga of The Ciro versus State Security

The rigors of life in the G2 are too hard for me. Imagine, the first day at work they ordered us to ….God! How stupid, to be standing still in place? From that moment on my lumbago started. Later, when they saluted the flag and started to sing the national anthem, I developed a rash all over my body that itched like hell. But when that colonel said that we had to recite by heart the putrefied mummy Castro’s commandments about his definition of revolution, I suffered an intestinal infarction and fainted.
The doctor who saw me at the Naval Hospital tested my tolerance for Socialist Slogans and determined that I wasn’t fit to continue to provide my services in the State Security, now I am a retiree of MININT with a meager pension of 120 pesos monthly, so I must return to music. By the way, I did manage to get into the secret files and recover my papers, so, in case I don’t survive the consequences stemming from my one day in the G2, here are the lyrics to the song I wrote about stinky-feet Che:


Che did not bathe

Che was a babbling cocksucker the day Castro found him
and with his crooked teeth signed him up and put him on his boat.
and there wasn’t a single expeditionary who could fall asleep.
Because an unbearable foot stink hung around the place.

The farts he farted raised tremendous curiosity.

If his asthma doesn’t let him breathe, where does he get so much gas?
Such putrefaction bothered even Fidel himself.

Who made him a commanding officer and sent him to an invasion far away from him.

He even had a few children when the revolution was won.
Who was the madwoman who could tolerate such a stench?
And Castro sent him to Bolivia never to smell him again.
And under that pretense, made sure they would kill him there.

P.S. I’m missing a stanza that someone ripped off the page, I’m sure to keep it as a souvenir.

Ciro Díaz