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Sandwiches of Hate


Give me, O Lord,

my daily bread,

and I'll make a sandwich

from the souls of the dead.

I'll butter it lightly

with infants deceased

through malnutrition

and preventable disease.

Then ham made from off-cuts

of the hope of the poor,

that's chopped up and shattered

by famine and war.

And perhaps some cheese too

congealed from the tears

of suffering mothers

and their grief through the years.

And now for some lettuce

made from the broken dreams

of political prisoners

in despotic regimes.

And a slice of tomato

constructed from the pride

of mass murderers

and their sick genocide.

Then topped off with mayo

blended from the smiles

of children made orphans

by guns and missiles.

And the pious among us

toast the sandwich in flame,

but the devil won't light it

as he's not to blame.

So no thank you, O Lord,

as you don't exist,

as an all-powerful God

would prevent all this.

Yes, it's us who's to blame,

but we've had enough.

Perhaps it's our time

to make peace a foodstuff.

With joy as our butter

we'll rise above,

with our friendship as jam,

we'll make baguettes of love.