A Lullaby for Bush

(on his flight over Iraq)

Thirty-one thousand feet, far from the fray,
Above the oil-smeared jewel of Iraq
Downcast, diseased, distressed, displaced, decayed,
To entertain His Majesty within,
A silver sliver in the lither sky, [1]
The glinting Air-Force-One over Baghdad,
Flanked by four fighters, dips its burnished wing.
There, peering down through rarefied air, The Prince
Of Air, [2] eyes blinking through the porthole, peeps.
Son of his father, heir to Divine Right,
Illuminate by Phoebus' gilded rays,
Takes in his conquest, drinks it deep in gloat.
Serene and dull, a flicker on that face,
That noble face, whose smirk of noble lips
Commanded legions, who is Legion, [3] 'till,
Lethargic, languid, listless, languorous,
He lounges on his leather throne, lazes
Into the bosom of untroubled sleep.

June 5, 2003

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[1]      See William Shakespeare, '1 Henry VI', IV.vii.21

[2]      Ephesians 2:2

[3]      Mark 5:10