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In Somalia
Many miles from the canyon it was born in
Our friend, a fearful cry, an echo made
A butterfly eddy is named Andrew
Many miles from the shouts and gunshots is
Our friend, a grief, an innocent boy
A cleansing that grows thinner and bloodier
Many miles from the forclosures and evictions are
Our friends, with a per diem, and a gavel
A looting and raping in the name of the dollar
Many miles from the pundits and spin-doctors wait
Our friends, all the voters and rock-stars
A messenger flies down the campaign trail
Many miles away
A boy sits in mud
With a bowl of rice
And his thin and dead brother
Cradled in his lap
And he watches the air machines
Fly overhead
His only friends
More gunshots erupt, greedy for food
In Somalia
