From the pot of yonder strife, a bitter brew doth boil,
A jet shoots down by friendly fire, causing sea to roil.
"Praise St. Bridget," aye the pilots then, kissed by holy coil,
In the cauldron of the Red Sea, away from Yemen's toil.
Long hath Syria yearned in quiet for the dawn's first gleam,
Under cruel rulers' hand and foreign lordly scheme.
Now, like ale fermenting slow, freedom's froth doth teem,
In centuries' dark cellar, 'tis a vision, not a dream.
The Serengeti's pastoral folk, like lambs in lion's claw,
Forced to leave their ancient glades, by some legal saw.
E'en as we sup of earth's bounty, let it cause us woe raw,
From their homes in heaven's garden, the Maasai draw.
