Its stain sullies the alabaster
Of your pretty little hand
A crimson birthmark of death
Your seat in parliament safe
So long as you send boys
To die in foreign wars
Thus satisfying corporate masters
Blood will not wash
Much as you try in the dead of night
Assiduously scrubbing left to right
Yet here's a spot - out! out!
As the death toll mounts
One man's terrorist another's nationalist
Still you hold the party line
Head in the sand - fighting the good fight
Blood will not wash
For you have murdered sleep
The sleeve of care threadbare
Though at least your pension is assured
How much self-loathing can you afford?
May the lamentations of the mothers
Echo in halls of government
May we see our politicians weep -
For blood will not wash
Having memory like sand and paper
It must honour the giver and mark its taker
© shaun patrick green 2011
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ReplyDeletethere shall never be sleep
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