Good evening. On your screen
you'll see the good grief of the bereaved,
those who have taken leave
of their senses, their heads.
You push this button, and, boomf,
the anaesthetic of death:
a cocktail of broken brick, and a spasm,
a grey ghost of a building.
Our ground troops groove
the landscape, looking for mercy.
I am a doctor. Your village
is filled with willing patients.
I do not need my suicide machine.
The bombs have laid a red carpet
right to your door. I come
without prescription, or doubt,
to assist you to die. And later
you will lie in their crater.