Lo! A tempest brews in eastmost lands, where Palest shores await,
As UNRWA, a beacon, soon might meet an untimely fate,
Where meals are served, and knowledge reaped, and weary souls find balm,
Will silence reign o'er hallowed paths, will this be Midgard's qualm?
Al Jazeera, once a sturdy ship, sails boldly in West Bank's tide,
Yet muzzle by the PA's hand, it can no longer ride.
O'er territories, strife doth seethe, a grim and bloody dance,
For ruler's scepter and kingly seat in the bitter heart of want's expanse.
Comes the tale of brave Jim Knaub, a warrior on wheel-ed steed,
In life's fierce race, he took the fore, bound by neither fear nor need,
Paraplegics to him looked, their spirits taking flight,
In his echo rings the gallant jest - why walk when one can delight in flight?
