The choppers glides forward,

Over the militant zones,

while the jets strike not lightly,

on 'uninhabited' homes.

One man's freedom fighters,

Are another's feared foes,

In our days of all plenty,

Such bad fruits do we grow.

All the world's politicians,

Barter humanitarian aid,

Sums which pale in significance,

To the cost of grenades.

But auspicious engagements,

Obscure the problems at home,

In these days of all plenty,

such rotten fruits do we throw.

We preach the 'clash of the cultures',

While all reason corrodes;

will we survive to see muslims,

On the cover of Vogue?

In the search for the peaceful,

Neither side stands alone,

So in our time of all plenty,

Why such bad seeds do we sow?