Not-born-in-the-USA Blues

She was eight years-old. She had her whole life
before her, till she was bug-splatted
like her brothers, her sister, her mother.
Father was vaporized a year ago.

And her annihilation will be argued
(by untouched, made-up heads, wanting to be
something, someone, but at her expense)
if it was a good bomb, or a bad one.

And the polls and pundits pontificate
in those far-off lands of the occident,
so unknown, so different, so exotic,
like in a thousand and one horrid dreams.

We all know: the world must be made safe.
From whom? For whom? And why was that again?
I couldn't hear you. They're droning my home.
Oh! sorry you feel threatened round your campfire.

But, decisions must be made, and hard ones:
tough love, I say, when it kills to be kind;
and, well, you cannot know what's good for you
when you live that close to oil; we know best;

we're all called upon to make sacrifices,
for ways-of-life are at stake, just not yours;
we're so sorry you happened to be,
by chance, at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was eight years-old. I had my whole life
in front of me, till I was bug-splatted
like my brothers, my sister, my mother.
Father was vaporized a year ago.