Good poem, bad image

While doing a little research for my War Geek blog, I ran across a reference to one of my favorite poems, which I'm now going to inflict on you:

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

It's called, appropriately enough, The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner, by Randall Jarrell. (Click the post title for the full story.)