A truck hath struck Æthelings in parade,
In city where secrets of Mossads are made.
A haunting scene, as if from darkened tome,
God save us from such terror borne from home.
The ruling band proclaims its vict'ry loud,
In Georgia where Soviet shadow cloud.
Yet truth be twisted like grape turned to wine,
The opposition cries foul of this sign.
War hath sprung, long-distance foes engaged,
From desert sands, a new chapter is paged.
Yet spite the peril at Iranian stoop,
Saint Israel doth fly in victorious loop.
