I was walking in a
distant land, fooling around while feeling grand
I saw her sitting
on the grace, feeling all the worlds' rash
She saw me coming
and said hi, in a low tone and a sad cry
She was a refugee
in her own land, where the expats feel grand
They give the
people false aid, and show the world what they have made
The displaced are
in a complete loss, while every one feels the boss
What they need is
a friendly smile, and they get a charity rime
They want to live
in peace, while the givers prosper in grace
The war must go on
so they can thrive, on Mother Nature's hideous ride
Mischief dwells
the land, while death stretch the hand
One hand gives
with a yellow smile, and the other beat for a mile
Aid should go to
the fighting band, so they will eat their own hand
Pray with me for
the blood to stop, before the refugee's die and drop
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