If God made all, and all for man,
Why did he poorly measure land?
He worked so hard for six long days,
But measured not the need for graves.
A grievous error, for a foolish man,
For he made man to slaughter man.
To burn and rape and kill and maim,
And all their reasons are his name,
And all their seasons are the same,
Their blood, it flows like springtime brooks,
And soaks the pages of his books,
That teach men well to bomb and kill,
And hate the other, down the hill,
The ones another god created,
And for that crime they must be hated.
They must be shot and stabbed and burned,
And forced to leave and not return,
To that very treasured gift from God,
That very poorly measured land,
Where peace lies rotting,
Under blood soaked sand.
Missives & Musings 