To seek a peaceful world can't be bad. Time for one of my poems.
THE DAY PETER SELLERS DIED
Ode to a Stealth Bomber
Oh, how I sighed the day Peter Sellers died.
Hilarious wit went out the door, left without a belly-laugh roar.
Then with an explosive shot in the dark, a new pink panther made its mark.
Fumbling, stumbling, bumbling along, the Iraq-attacker was without a song.
Not funny nor legal, nor walking the talk, need for a mentor Mr. Peter Faulk.
Like Inspector Clouseau without a clue, for human crimes people sue.
Impostors playing Baghdad Bob charades, running away from protesters' parades.
Arrogantly pious for own intentions, wage torturous wars of their own inventions.
Fission, fusion, fission Dr. Strangelove Teller, his H-bombs from above,
Illicit savagely, in a false name of god, our world imbued in a seething mood.
Bombing human beings, animals and cities, so they do, to kill people of every hue.
The aftermath as sad as the shock and awe, a troubled sea, started in 2003.
Their leaders read not and mouth "God bless America"–a hidden device,
Bad apples unaware–the root meaning of "bless"–is blood sacrifice.