The world was gay
And peace held sway;
O'er most the land
T'was freedom's hand,

Til' one dark day
Came one who swayed
A people's mind;
That held them stiff
To bide him swift
All he command
Where 'ere he stand.

The devil's bell
His birth--death knell
From stygian Hell,
The dove of peace fell.

The Czechs he knew
Were weak--how true.
They had no quarrel
Until his snarl
Brought quick to arms
From towns and farms
The big, the tall
The short, the small.

But for a day
And then--dismay--

A voice--disband!
Each soldier, each man.
Some inside rot
Had made their cot
They lost their lot
Without a shot.

His minions work,
No task they shirk,
At greatest pace
They walk the face
Of this great world
Their devil's toil.
Within they boil
Their devil's brew,
Appear anew;
Detected not;
Frustration rot.
The "goose" is stew.
A boundary new.
A nation flew.
A nation grew.

The eastern World
Squirms in turmoil
As this man's clan
Eradicates man.
His every whim
Brings forth great din,
His every mood
Brings death--his brood.

He's sly--not wise
But covets this guise
Of being a leader
Like Pompey, like Caesar.

In his mind odd
From whence he nod,
This thought does plod,
"First me, then God."

As death falls near,
Instilling fear
In those who stand--
Now blank and bland,
Their homes are bombed;
Their loved ones gone.

For what they live!?
Their lives to give
To someone strange
Who kills to change
Their freedom's right
To right by might?

Their lives are shot;
Their dreams will rot.
Still--this poor lot
Deserves it not.

The din of planes,
The groans of slain,
The hiss of air
As missiles flare,
The smell of death,
Of fresh killed flesh,
Of burning skin,
Of bloody limb,
Of flame-singed hair,
Of stench filled air--
T'is all a part
Of his grand art.

He painted fine
On walls of lime.
As well--his crime
On walls of time.

He had his day
Til' in the fray
Appeared a foe
He fears; and lo!
Tenfold in might
Our forces strike
To rid the earth
Of Hitler's curse.

With infamous lies
His end he hies
His star ordains
His crumbling fame.

The earth he'd rape
So he'd be great.
We, on his nape
Compute his fate.

1997 by Pasqual S. Schievella