Z is for Zeitgeist,
when shit flies around
and calls
for the trumpets of doom start to sound.
Y’s yapping
for Yalta. Oops, sorry, wrong war!
Someone’s
forgotten we’ve been here before.
X exacts
Xeno – the ‘phobe’ will come later,
supported by
dubious dossiers and data.
W’s with
Weapons we’re certain are hidden
in mousehole
and mosque, graveyard and midden.
V values the
Virtues our military build.
How many
body bags do you want filled?
U upturns
Umm Qasr, the first town we’ll take
and we’ll
take and we’ll take, when our honour’s at stake.
T trickles
to Tony, pet poodle and friend,
who, pissing
on Parliament, holds up your end.
S slams on
Shock, so, alongside of awe,
Baghdadis
will cop it. Add them to the score.
R rankles
Republican – Party and Guard;
one party’s
arranged for the guard to be charred.
Q’s quaking
Qatar, so let’s draft an order
to engage
friendly fire as we cross Iraq’s border.
P procures
Powell and Israeli Power.
As the latter
bawls, “Increase!” the former will cower.
O oodles
with Oil, so rich and yet thick.
No, Georgie,
don’t swig it, that’s crude! You’ll be sick.
N nudges up
Numbers in collateral damage.
Civilians or
soldiers? Women or cabbage?
M masses for
Mission. Er, what is its name?
A Storm
in a Desert? No, sshhh, Desert Shame.
L’s lovely
in Looting for dealers who lie
about
shipping fine arts to New York, on the sly.
K kindles
the Kurds re-taking Kirkuk.
We’ll make
sure the Turks’ll bring them to book.
J judders
with Journalists, many embedded,
though a few
independents will likely get shredded.
I implodes
in Iran, the next on the list -
another sad
nation that’s got Dubya pissed.
H hankers in
Hans, the Swede with a plan
to locate
phoney weapons - whenever he can!
G grovels to
George. What a prize for his nation!
His
election, we argue, was no aberration.
F falls to
Fedayeen far in the East.
Did the CIA
order a moveable feast?
E’s the Élite, which we are; yes, it’s true,
and sandstorms
are wet and intelligence new.
D drops on
Daisies, cutters and all:
we won’t let
Shi’as keep more than one ball.
C cringes
for Children like Ali, disarmed:
we’ve sent
out prostheses; the media’s charmed.
B bloats in
Basra, where Brits reign secure,
no matter
that cholera streams from the sewer.
A might have
been Allah, but Allah’s a boor;
it’s His
fault Iraqis pumped up this war.
