These are bad days around the Palace Assad,
Where history's giving them all a sharp prod,
To finish the war before Clinton rolls in,
And tells ol' Bashar the U.S. is all in.
The choices he faces fall 'tween black and black,
This mild eye doctor from a sweet London prac'.
Yes, he's been savage but from his POV,
It's "You can have anarchy or you can have me.
Or do you prefer those guys with black flags,
Their cousins in Qaeda or half-Turks in rags?
'Cause they'll turn Syria into one big Alep',
Where all and sundry send armies as rep."
I hope he's phoned Vlad and called him a sucker,
For signing a peace to last a kiss pucker,
Unless it's true that the SecDef on his own,
Ordered some Syrians to kingdom come blown,
For our dear Pentagon like Iranian Rev Guards,
Runs its own shop and plays its own cards.
As in a Greek play the Assads must feel,
Watching the Fates of the omen near steal.
Their hopes lie with Russia but nothing's forever,
Like borders in sand drawn of British endeavor.
You can't call yours more than what you secure,
And you can't cry "Murder!" when you're not so pure.
Their end is assured and their helplessness real,
Which watching this show is just how I feel,
As neocons connive to make Russia bend,
Destroying / displacing their old Arab friend,
And no one can stop them, they do as they please,
These Masters of U who so the earth squeeze.