Bad King Obama once looked out, whilst he was in the War Room eating,
When the Afghan snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even;
Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.
"Come here Aide, and stand by me, if you know it, tell me,
That there peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?"
"Sir, he lives far away, underneath the Afghan mountains;
Right against the Khyber Pass, in the land of Pashtun Chieftains."
"Scorch his flesh, and have him die, kill him this winter:
For I shall see him fry, when we murder this sand..."
President and aide, forth they went, forth they went together;
Watching the Predator fly, through wind's wild lament and the bitter weather.
"Sir, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger;
In my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer."
"Mark my words, good my aide. Follow them obediently,
For he shall find the drone's range freeze the blood less coldly."
In his Commander's steps he trod, where the plush carpet lay dinted;
Heat was in the very earth which the peasant had printed.
Therefore, men and women, please be sure, people we'll be bombing,
You who now will kill the poor, shall yourselves find blessing.