Someone acts strangely
in having the right to hit you
In Tornados they flew
to that crowded city of human shields
where they bombed to woo
those who wouldn’t yield.
In hitting they don’t want hit
They would be outraged if you did,
it’s their irreversible right
to give you a hundred thousand whacks.
Didn’t you learn that in the crib:
you don’t hit back at the light,
lie back and take it in the ribs.
The planes sing in war lust,
the land below must die,
its development isn’t considered just,
this birth-of-a-nation is a lie.
Much like when the hangman
held up the head and heart,
and Elizabeth was a fan,
then England was considered an upstart.
Did medievalism disappear
with the modern weapons of war,
is death now more gentle, without a tear,
when heads not cut explode in gore.
Wilson John Haire.