Cosmopolite

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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