Story Poem, Nr.06 — The Day The Drone Dropped In For Tea

 
The day the drone dropped in for tea  
at number thirty-two  
the women gladly chattering  
prepared the Sunday stew  
 
the table set, the men passed time  
played football with their sons  
when someone in the distance heard  
a deathly kind of hum  
 
the baby cried, and aunty came  
to cheer its tiny frame  
and all the family went inside  
said grace in Allah’s name  
 
the tea was poured, the stew was put  
a meal for all to share  
the sound got louder in the sky  
and granny looked bit scared  
 
the whistling noise grew louder still  
it flew towards the roof  
the adults froze, the children stared  
confused by crazy truths  
 
it happened all so fast you know  
came crashing through the ceiling  
and splintered bits of tin and stone  
that sent the stew all reeling  
 
mother screamed and grabbed the baby  
missile said “Oh hi  
you’re on the list as terrorists  
I’ll blow you up sky high  
 
but first I bring a word of peace  
we’re doing this for you  
for hi-tech might is always right  
we trust you’ll see our view  
 
we have a strategy you know  
of winning hearts and minds  
we’re sure you will agree with us  
our actions are so kind”  
 
the father said “you idiot  
we ain't done nothing wrong”  
“You’re terrorists” the missile spoke  
and sang its marching song  
 
and Uncle said “a load of bunk  
your leaders must be thick  
Abdul-the-terrorist’s down the road  
at number forty-six”  
 
“oops!” said the missile “too late now  
in a mo’ I shall explode  
kill you all in a flash of heat  
for that’s my programmed mode”  
 
mother looked faint, clutched the baby  
missile exploded … BANG!  
upped the stats of collateral damage  
the heavenly angels sang  
 
the pilot smiled from far away  
said “good … target destroyed”  
got up for a pee and a smoke  
his mind in a mental void  
 
and chatting to friends he said “how swell  
our planes stay in the hangar  
these drones fly hundreds of miles away  
with pilots in no danger”  
 
the neighbours came running to tear at the rubble  
but no-one survived, not a one, not at all  
except the young baby who’d lost both her legs …  
and who died in a hospital ward  
 
 
The brood of vipers (speaking metaphorically)  
practiced firing missiles on Afghans having tea  
they say it is the distanced way that politics has to be  
they do this in the name of God, and also you and me  
this firing missiles from drones on Afghans having tea.