Woe to the world,
The promised land has just got smaller,
That special place to the east sanctified by the caller,
What's the rush to **** and die for life?
These are the roots of our plundered, ageing strife.
Central to feuding beliefs is an ideal called peace
And that dove is yet to conquer the ever fighting geese,
As you read on, another brother wipes his brow with a ******, ***** rag,
And that dove called peace remains an idea trapped in a brain paper bag