DC, be Aryan

 

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.