For Woody

Fuck. I haven't written
One fucking poem in a fucking
Month, arguing about their
Fucking war.
Enough, I say, I've had
Enough of all their stupidity--
Listen, I don't care who
They're planning to kill next--
Somalis, Iraqis, whatever.
Their murder is of
No interest--O.J. must
Be laughing his ass off,
Having murdered just
His wife and her friend,
While they take pride
In the slaughter of
Thousands of Afghanis.
Well, let them continue
With their fucking war---
No one is stopping them.
I'll just sit here, while
They sing their moronic hymns
And wave their moronic flags--
What did that dumbass Dubya
Call it? "Infinite justice",
"Enduring freedom"?
I don't give a damn what he calls it,
I'll just open the window
And look at the stars tonight,
Watching the bright glow
Of the full moon on
December 30, 2001.
For every date is a special
Date in God's cosmic calendar.
Keep God out of this war--
God never blesses those
Who kill, kill, kill.
For God is love, God is truth,
And God has nothing to do
With their propaganda.
They can jerk off to CNN
All day long if they like,
Ramming their girlfriends
With star-spangled dildos,
As they fuck their cousins
Up the ass--hell it's a free
Country, and they are all free
To be stupid and ignorant.
Now I know why Woody got shot
By the police in a Vermont church,
As he threatened suicide
With a small pocket knife.
He was "not with the program"--
He just freaked out that day,
And they had to shoot
A frightened man
With "friendly fire"--
Another casualty in this
Fucking war on terror...

No, I will state my case,
I will smash these lies
Into the next year
And the years to come--
Those who waged this war
Will pay a price
For the evils that they
Had done.

                                        December 30, 2001
                                     --Alexander Shaumyan