There is no silence
When you suffer
Rolling pitching
The ceiling is always black
In the northern suburbs
of burned out Iraq
In the morning
When I am asunder
Weaving bobbing
Gee you’re pretty, are you from RAK
No, Iraq
Dry bones
thigh bones
When are you leaving
Oh you’ve left
Howling scowling
And silently you’ll go back
To Iraq?
Masalama
little mama
I’m going home too
to Mobile
Mobile Alabama
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