Iraq's bridge bears foretold fruit -
   Blood on its cars,
   Blood on its route.
Torn bodies dangling from contested spars;
Strange fruit dark'ning 'neath the sun and stars.

Sacrifice made in a sacred town,
Like shamed fascist lovers, heads hung down,
'Cross river libations, old and strong,
Bearing fear's stench and strange blood along.

Here is a fruit for all men to sup -
   for the war to ripen,
   for agony's cup,
   for the sun to rot,
   for due time to drop.
Here is that Bush's bitter crop.

                    (Apologies to Abel Meeropol - and to Billie Holliday)