Monday, 22 August 2011
The Jackals Gather
A lick of levin forks the night,
Fatal flickers of a firefight,
As NATO drops its bombs nearby.
Whilst victory rolls down the road,
Come carpetbaggers close behind,
New tyrants treading softly.
Black the blood now pumping,
Spluttering and gushing,
Spurting from cursed ground.
Wrapped in a flag a buried son,
Still carrying a Russian gun,
Liberation dead upon his lips.
For they will find no freedom here,
As jackals gather, slouching near,
To lap their dry tongues in Libyan oil.