The jew king whispers to his hands at night

What sort of man is this
scarfed with the red of a race
he is so hard to kill
their young though are easy
I bomb the beach and they vanish to a mist
but the grown man is stubborn and sturdy
he is willing to be broadsword of his belief
willing to die as long as he takes
a few of my people with him
he I cannot destroy for he is legion
like roaches and there are more
in the recesses and the walls of the country
I have taken from them
always ready to stain the air to take it back
I have rained my best bombs on him
and still he stands
 
his children they scare me with their stare.


The poem, the painting and the anger are mine.