On Cloverfield (a spoilery poem)

[Apologies to John McCrae.]

On Cloverfield the polyps grow
Between the spiders, row on row,
That stalk subways; and in the sky
The B-2s, carpet bombing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, and drank Slusho,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In the site formerly known as Central Park.

Now you must document the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The camcorder; do hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
Then you're a douche, and polyps grow
On Cloverfield.