A Poem For Thursday



The best and decent life, Gaddafi,
doesn't call for fighter jets,
nor guns or tank or rockets
tipped with mustard gas.

No matter where he goes,
Libya or Pakistan,
the upright man fears nothing
in Tunisia or Iran.

For as I wandered out unarmed
I sang of Liberty,
and from inside my border,
a wolf began to flee,

and what a wolf he was,
as bad as Ben Ali,
Mubarak or the other thugs
nursed by official policy.

So put me on the open plains
where summer parches trees
or on that slice of Earth
choked by clouds and gloomy days,

you can set me right beneath
Apollo's SUV,
and still I'll love her, and her laugh,
free spoken Liberty.

By Dish alum Christopher Van Buren, with apologies to Horace.

(Photo: A smouldering copy of the "green book," written Libyan leader Moamer Kadhafi, was burned by residents of the north-central Libyan town of Benghazi on March 02, 2011. By Robert Schmidt/AFP/Getty Images)