"Off with his head," my executioners said,
So I brace myself for heaven.
Psalm twenty three verse seven
Is the only verse I know,
And I'll regret it forever that I never read more.
My first time dying, and probably my last
All thanks to the army and their "talk shows"
Painting Iraq like a cheap Michelangelo
But there's no glory here, only gore.
At least I've been good; it's all I ever was:
An American "hero", captured, caged and killed.
Maybe I'll avoid that wretched furnace below.
My last sight of this world is the ground,
They draw the hood beneath my throat,
Tight all round; I can't breathe.
Cold steel is unsheathed.
I hear a hear a soft prayer murmured,
Then his blade, hissing through the air. Yikes.
My life turns to darkness,
Nothing is there.