(an uncouth case of timing)

Down in the gulf the war was finished
(A blink, and it might have all been missed)
Sadaam was sad and quite diminished
As out in the desert the victors kissed.

In Paradise the Ancient Valour
Looked forward with a grave delight
To pro-and-con it in Valhalla,
That coming Friday`s `Viking Night`.

(Stonewall Jackson, sword on hip,
Smirked a furtive smile to Lee,
While Saladin`s contemptuous lip
Scorned the unequal weaponry.)

But the immediate demand
Was a lamentation for the dead,
As Odin bid each warrior stand
Respectfully and bare his head.

This done, they all suppressed their views
And sat in quiet conversation,
Till someone said, `Turn on the news,
Switch it to the British station`.

And lo! on the Celestial tele,
In that icy manner, all his own,
Was Board of Trade boss Peter Lilley
Addressing the financier`s moan.

Assuring them (in his preamble)
That he`d elbowed Britain to the fore
Of the lucrative contractual scramble
To make the oil-fields gush once more.

(While he thus reassured the banks
Thick profits soon would ooze again,
On the road to Basra twisted tanks
Crushed inextricable, mangled men.

God! The slain were not yet buried,
Some of the wounded not quite dead.
In crawling masses flies were serried,
Black on festering, putrid heads.)

The Ancient Valour, shocked, disgusted,
Uttered one long communal moan
While, shamed, the British Military mustered
To make their feelings swiftly known.

And over the ministry, broken hearted
(Militarily crude, but appropriate – fit)
Alfred pissed and Nelson farted,
Wellington vomited…(Cromwell shit)