How would you feel,
Excuse me, begging your pardon
But how would you feel if the whole wide world
Decided to fight in your garden?!
Russian jets, Yank and Brit
Dropping bombs on their target
Undermining native hope
How can we poor Syrians cope?
The world and his wife
Has tuned in to us
Each eyeing a piece of the pie
But it’s not your peace, it’s not your war
It’s not your pie it’s not your sky
That’s darkened by the mortar shell
The fiery red, of burning hell
This cradle of humanity
This birthplace of a faith
Is under siege by greed and hate
But don’t just drop your bombs and go!
Stick around for the after-show
The clear-up from this terrible war
The rebuild of my beautiful nation
Not the chance to polish your medals
Or pat each other on the back
But to oust Assad and his evil ways
His allies have been mightily praised
For dropping bombs on hospitals?!
Putin is no Saviour, King!
He just wants his share of the spoils.
So how would you feel
If the whole wide world
Decided to fight in your garden
You’ll excuse me if I don’t jump for joy
If don’t grant your pardon
But I am waiting to see
How much you care
About my sons and daughters
Or whether you are just intent
On another Middle-East slaughter.
P J Deakin 2015 ©