I am Popeye
the nuclear-torpedo man,
I live beneath a dark Mediterranean sky.
Russians? they threaten with ashcan,
they know not I’m a Family Guy,
just on patrol, not the Ku Klux Klan;
I eat spinach, no Lukoil to fry,
cannot remember a Test-Treaty ban,
King of the Sea, dial Cpt. B-L-I-G-H,
no Exodus strategy for Mahmoud’s Iran,
I quickly “pivot,” hear Olive’s pitiful cry,
pitter-patter feet, count a billion Han,
ballistic muscles, Allenby Bridge of Sigh.