Ode to a Stealth Bomber

Oh, how I sighed the day Peter Sellers died.
Hilarious wit went out the door, left without a belly-laugh roar.
Then with an explosive shot in the dark, a new pink panther made its mark.
Fumbling, stumbling, bumbling along, the Iraq-attacker was without a song.
Not funny nor legal, nor walking the talk, he needs for his mentor Mr. Peter Faulk.
Like Inspector Clouseau without a clue, for human crimes people sue.
People are playing Baghdad-Bob-charades, running away from protesters’ parades.
Arrogantly and piously for oily intentions, wage torturous wars of their own inventions.
Illegally savagely, in a false name of good, our world imbrued in a seething mood.
Bombing humans, animals and cities they do, to kill bad apples in the few.
They read not and mouth “God bless America”—a hidden device,
Bad apples unaware—the root meaning of “bless”—blood sacrifice.