The story goes that in Iran
A worthy man,
Intelligent and wise,
Died, suffering great agonies.
Departing with a heart
Full of distress and smart,
He went up to God’s throne
And said: "God I am one
Grieved at the way that I
Was made to die.
Your angel of Death is
Supposed to be a specialist,
And yet he has no expertise,
No knowledge of the new skills that exist
In the fine art of killing. He
Kills, but does it so clumsily.
The world is going rapidly ahead,
But his growth has stopped dead.
The west develops wonderful new skills
In this as in so many other fields.
Fine are the ways it kills,
And great are its skill’s yields.
It has encompassed even thought with death.
Death is all its philosophies’ life-breath
It is what all its sciences devise.
Its submarines are crocodiles,
With all theie predatory wiles.
Its bombers rain destruction from the skies.
Its gases so obscure the sky
They blind the sun’s world-seeing eye.
Its guns deal death so fast
The Angel of Death stands aghast,
Quite out of breath
In coping with this rate of death.
Despatch this old fool to the West
To learn the art of killing fast – and best."