Beelzebush
When flush with victory from Eden’s fraud
The Father of Lies jubilant returned
To Tartarus, his host could not applaud
The victory his mere deceit had earned.
As serpents then, the foulsome fallen fiends,
Seeing fresh fruitage seeming fair to sight,
To feasting fell, but found famishing means
As fangs bit into bitter ashes’ blight.
Now to the Son of Lies like spoils apply
Amid the wasted wreckage of Iraq.
A purple heart to gild the livid lie,
His greed is laden on a soldier’s back.
As on an ass he heaps his burden dear,
Insatiable in hunger to the last,
Mocking the orphan and the widow’s tear,
An addict lurching to his next repast.
Like junkies care not if they steal from kin,
He robbed us, and our Paradise is lost.
We reap the wages of Bush Junior’s sin.
The poet Milton prophesied this cost.
July 2003
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Please direct any requests for publication, in whatever form or medium, to the author, Ian Reed, at
tango_poet@hotmail.com (212) 841-0341.
