The Middle East
Are the mother’s cries less bleak,
In a language we don’t speak?
Why does the pain not translate?
When we speak of love but do in hate
Is it their freedom we are fighting for?
It seems to be a foot in the door
We make them pay for our small toil
And steal and pillage all their oil
We say we have a better life
But all our green and silver is built on red
We ignore and disregard the natives’ strife
And pretend to care when they pile their dead
But we do not care and we never will,
So the lives of millions must pay our gas bill.
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