I’d tap that
I’d plow you like a South American plantation after a light shower in April.
I’d wreck you like an 1887 textile factory in downtown New York that didn’t pass an asbestos inspection.
I’d bomb you like a Shi’ite Iraqi woman in the Israel at a checkpoint to Jerusalem after rigorous terrorist training in the slums of south Yemen.
I’d tap you like a pair of central Kenyan tribal drums during a Coming-of-Man ritual.
I’d devastate you like a swarm of ravenous locusts in a field of budding strawberries that were planted only 2 weeks earlier by a Mexican farmer who depends on the profits from his produce to feed his family.
