Fire In The Night  The raven perches on Lincoln's marble shoulder, Oily black wings behind his back. His red eyes peer into silver night fog, While Baghdad is burning. The vultures swoop down on majestic wings, To skid at Jefferson's stony feet, And peck listlessly at crumbs left there. Their cue-ball banker heads raise, To gaze at the cold dead words Carved in concrete, "We hold these truths to be self-evident…" While Baghdad is burning. Lean coyotes lope down from Congressional Hills, Tongues like pink carpets lapping for a kill, And owls sit fat on the Capitol Dome, While Baghdad burns. I have no time for TomKat's kid, No time to read what Paris did. Where Madonna has gone, Whom Brangelina took home, What Mel drunkenly said, Or where "Survivor" has led. No time for Ashley's antics, For Jessica and Nick, Or Mark Foley's e-mails, however sick. No time for Hilary, For North Korea's bomb, No time, no time for the Pope's latest psalm. Baghdad is burning. The dead pile up like driftwood. The blood soaks into our bones. The raven perches on Lincoln's head, Watching, As Baghdad burns.