Perhaps it‘ll be over
when I dare to open eyes
blinded by the centuries
of imperialistic lies.
When the bodies have been buried
underneath their rubble rooms
and the children all lie sleeping
In their bleak nursery tombs.
Perhaps I will be happy
with my name written on a rocket
that makes its way to Syria
in some war monger’s pocket.
For how many deadly missiles
does it take to kill an idea
in an enemy that deals in currencies
Of hate, terror and fear?
Perhaps I’ll side with generals
who justify their cause
by the number of innocent casualties
obliterated by their wars.
Where the targets are acquired
and the planes are in the air
and they don’t know what to do next
and they don’t really care.
Perhaps I’ll ignore the people
who elected me to parliament,
thinking it’s a show of strength
to vote with this War Lord government.
I’ll stab my Judas knife
into the back of men of peace.
The wolf hiding in the flock,
draped in a bloody fleece.
Perhaps it will be none of this
and all will see some sense
that bombing foreign countries
is the worst form of defence -
because the terrorist will not be home,
he’ll be some where else and plotting
more atrocities on foreign soil
while dead Syrian’s are rotting.