Death Near Sirte
ÒDonÕt shoot,Ó he said,
ÒWhat did I do to you?Ó
As if they might forget
The forty years theyÕd been
At his mercy. Or its lack.
But now he was at theirs.
ÒRatsÓ heÕd called them,
And swore to hunt them down,
Till exactly like a rat,
Hiding in a drain pipe,
It was him they found.
So now the sublime picture:
Clothing ripped, smeared
with his blood;
His face shoved in the dirt;
The terror and humiliation
He had given to so many
Come round to him at last.
Justice most sweet –
Not in some antiseptic
court;
He would get it in the
street,
Perfect, pure, and
short—
The fitting fate he could
not cheat,
With all his stolen
billions;
Not an eye for an eye,
But his one eye for
millions.
And now about to die,
Perhaps he finally
understood.
Tales donÕt always end
The way they should.
But this one did,
And it was good.