135 words
It’s true: few deaths are kind.
The agéd pensioner,
with Dunkirk on his mind,
prays for his to occur.
His life was long and hard;
a belt still burns his back.
Inside the cancer ward
he lies upon the rack.
To die at ninety-five
is not a tragedy.
To part a hornet hive
is to die peacefully.
The hand of Jihad
To be killed in one’s prime,
run over in the street,
is an unspeakable crime
no one should ever meet.
In Britain’s largest city
a soldier returning to base,
young fusilier Lee Rigby,
was slain because of race.
In the name of belief
because Albion fights
its Wars for Tel Aviv
to uphold human rights?
Whose? Certainly not Lee’s
who lay upon the pavement
that every white man sees.
There freedom means enslavement.