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.