The Ghosts of Syria

The Ghosts of Syria

Counting down the days

is all I’m doing.

Waiting for booties to fall,

waiting for drones to drop,

just watching Syrian babies

gassing up their empty lungs

for their next journey to a rocky graveyard

near scarred ruins once known as Aleppo.

Won’t you join in and sing Hallelujah

with the Bash man hiding mouse-like in Latakia.

Basher boy likes his children bloated and ugly,

disfigured and blue.

His buddies Vlad and the son of Saud and Hussa smile

with each prepubescent murder.

After all, it is the way of the dark, rich butcherers.

Won’t you sing Hosanna every one?

Cause Donnie’s gotta gun.

The shepherd’s staff lies broken.

The Holy Ghost lives near Antarctica.

He’s invisible like Assad’s Sarin gas attack.

Jesus walked across the China Sea and discovered

Tibet is too far to walk.

So he took a swim,

autopsy showed too much salt water and wine.

God slept through it all and a guy in Kansas City

stole a bag of heroin from a toothless woman named Mary.