Judge, Jury, and Wine Aficionado
I know. I pick nits, and I'll be locked away
For doing so. I sit inside my lovely home,
A glass of malbec close at hand, to watch
A hand-picked Aryan read off some
Snippets of the news. A man, who dressed
In women's clothes, drew close to a bus
Full of soldiers gridlocked in Islamabad,
And blew up himself, killing ten. The
Aryan, appropriately grave, pronounces
What was done to be an act of terrorism.
"You're a tool," I intone. Attacks on
Soldiers may be sad, but they aren't acts
Of terrorism. What they are are acts
Of war, fighters killing fighters. All is
Fair in that respect, in war. By now
The Aryan's moved on. It's seems our
Side's intrepid warriors have mistaken
Men and women dancing at a wedding
For a meeting of our enemies, and they
Have slaughtered lots of them. He says
That's not terrorism. It is just an accident.
I say, “Go ask those who lived.
They'll tell you you are wrong.”