The Devil’s Midwife; Mother of All Bombs
I see Queen M.O.A.B. hath been with you.
She is the devil’s midwife, and she comes
In shape much bigger than an agate-stone
Pushed by the finger of an orange man,
Drawn by a team of sub-atomics
To scorch men’s faces as they lie asleep;
Her chariot is an giant flaming skull
Made by Lockheed Martin or Boeing
Time out o’ mind the devil’s coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through native’s brains, and then they dream of death;
O’er dictator’s knees, that dream on oil straight,
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees,
O’er childrens ‘ lips, who straight on suppers dream,
Which oft the angry M.O.A.B. with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with virus tainted are:
Sometime she driveth o’er a jihadi’s neck,
And then dreams he of cutting Shia throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Saudi blades,
Of hells five-fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again.
This is that very M.O.A.B.
That plats the treads of Abrams in the night,
And yanks the dredlocks out from children’s heads,
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk’st of nothing.
True, I talk of wars,
Which are the children of complacent fools,
Begot of ignorance and vain fantasy,
For reasons as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the prideful hatred of the north,
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the bomb-dropping south.