Cosmopolite

After all the smoke has cleared, after all the dirty deeds are known, after Bush and gang are gone, and all the shame has worn away, America still will be wedded to the tools of torture. This is so because they work. There is no human sound enough in mind or body to withstand the refined techniques of torture that hide within the well worn euphemism: interrogation. It is the deadly seed that sprouted to life under the green thumbs of the Bush administration. They know how to make anyone plead for death rather then the life-long regimen of torment they hold out. Christian lovers of peace proclaim sinners will burn in hell's fire forever. Like Prometheus' eternal torture the enforces of justice today offer hell on earth to anyone they choose. Guilt, innocents, right, wrong, it doesn't matter for they are the makers of reality. Justice you see does come from the barrel of a gun. Power does corrupt; it also rules.
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Upon a bier he lays, robed in crimson, white and gold,
The Bent Cross scepter cradled in his folded arms.
Miles and miles of faithful fill the streets in patient wait
For one last view of their beloved pope of peace.

While the kings of death, the men of hate,
Bush, Bush, Clinton, Rice, killers all,
Hustle through a privileged door
To be seen in respect to the man of peace.

As their death dealing bombs are crushing life
They kneel in hypocritical esteem
Of the man who dammed their “culture of death.”
Justice fails, the killers live, the Pope is dead.
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Jesus witness to the truth, beaten and rebuked. A crown for the king, needle sharp thorns will do. And his scepter? a stick to beat upon his back. A robe of purple for this king. Then after all the laughs, the man of peace was made to carry a heavy rough hued cross up the bleak and stony path to the Skull Place Golgotha. There they stripped away his royal robe, stretched him naked on his wood beamed cross, fixed him there with fierce iron spikes, hammered through his gentle hands, hands that healed the sick and blessed to poor, nailed him there upon that rood-tree crucifix. Then raised him up, upon his cross, into the darken sky to suffer, bleed and die. And above his head, above his crown of thorns, a placard mocked, This is Jesus of Nazareth king of the Jews.
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