No one dare walk under a dangerously exhausted sun
For a dark approaching mist is falling over the world.
Instead, the occupied, the purchased, gather in atonement,
And upon bended knee pray for their release, their freedom,
Beseeching their God to close the black mouth of terror
And deliver them from stalking death… no more.
String. Lace. Tighten. Pace. Boom!
Walking in your shoes, Mr. Bush, is an honor among bandits.
Treading across the mosque floor in a lifeless lace-up dance
He strode to the center of the prayer and lifted thirteen to Allah.
He strode to the inside and with your visage upon his face
In your image, in your footprint, this sole bomber did split it,
Clearing the sacrosanct hurdle of your phantom war.
String. Lace. Tighten. Pace. Boom!
Standing now in the swinging door of your terror
A warrior examined the carnage loudly,
And said “terrorist” in a mirrored voice;
Utterance of empire that he could not have recognized
Standing upon the damp carpet of retaliation
And sorrowful prayers for the occupied and dead.
String. Lace. Tighten. Pace. Boom!
Walking in your shoes, Mr. Bush, is an honor among bandits.
Treading across the occupations lifeless, drumming dance,
Your feet have kicked down the door to sovereignty!
In your reflection, in your path, this sole bomber did split it,
Your infection moved with smooth perfection across the room,
Ambled toward the center of grace and blasted his voice skyward!
String. Lace. Tighten. Pace. Boom!
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
