The Cremation of ...

There are strange things done under Bush's sun
Where greedy men moil for gold;
They have no care for the fetid air
Breathed by the young and old.

Because oil pollutes and cuthroat pursuits
Is all for the bottom line....
And the mansions built fosters no guilt
When explained as being "God's design".

They think that war is the way to keep score
As long as they get the big slice.
That an oil-slicked pool is more than cool
It's more than worth the price!

What's a dying child or masses beguiled
While taking nature's best?
Or if the ocean's deep is in permanent sleep
By black gum or poisened ghosts?

Who cares as long as they right that wrong
With thier noses and a thumb?
They can laugh with ease in the Bahama's breeze
And pray the press keeps mum