THE WAILERS OF BABYLON

Avenge, O Lord, your slaughtered souls, whose bones
   Lie shattered on Iraqi deserts cold;
   E'en them who built great cities dressed with gold
When all our Fathers lived in heaps of stones,
Forget not: history records their groans
   Who were our kin, in numbers yet untold
   Slain by our bloody allied power that holed
Mother and infant in their house. Their moans
The mikes relayed to our censors, and they
   Binned them. Their wasted blood and bodies sow
O'er all Arabian lands, where seeks to sway
   Our Tyranny, and from these dead may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt power's way,
   Broadly may spread their Babylonian woe.

                    (Apologies to John Milton)

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