Why bother naming babies in the foreign land
Sarin gas is not a Happy Birthday gift or plan
No way to play, no party list to live or die by
Syria is no kind of place for children's games
No Happy Birthday cakes but many planes
Full of surprises with dire consequences
Falling from the sky with great precision
Not with balloons but barrel bombs it rains
Down comes the pain for babies endings
Chlorine gas to bleach the level playing field
Containers full of dynamite and nails
Shrapnel is no toy for children in a war
Metal fragments make them just as dead
As when the sarin fell on them
They sortakinda have the same effect
Why have a name when getting outta bed
Why bother naming babies in the foreign land
Why bother being born to die again
That sortakinda does not matter what you said
When dead is dead
I am the scribe who spends my day fixing angles to a pin
yet in night dreams I spill my seed despoiling Seraphim.
I am the pilot holding fast to a course that cannot win
I am the finger on the trigger to loose the dread Sarin
but through it all I only feel this icy cold within
and pride in duty honoured, is this my greatest sin?