The telephone is all plastic
And metal, and intricately built
To deliver a message,
Technically, without feeling guilt
Over the woman who just went spastic,
Collapsing with tears
Running into her mouth
At the news her daughter is feared
Dead, in a country to the south.
The passenger jet is all aluminum
And composites, and designed
To carry people afar, to places
To relax and unwind,
But now it flies south, beautifully,
With a load of anguished souls,
Transporting dutifully
Friends, mothers, and wives
Ripped away from normal lives,
Towards a place where the Earth
Went kinetic, and hurt
And killed so many innocents
Now buried under the rubble-dirt.
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