by Mike Yant
I watched a film a few years back,
That painted the issue stark white and black.
Its horror screamed such statement bold,
As with helpless rage, my blood ran cold.
The baby, illumined by ultrasound,
Innocent, unaware, was abortion bound.
The tool, prepared to end his small life,
Precise as a chainsaw, or dull butcher's knife,
Was a suction tube, to tear and to rip,
Wee arms from the shoulders, wee legs from the hips.
While the doctor his tool of death did prepare,
The babe in his mom sucked his thumb with no fear.
Calm and curled up, with ne'r panicky thought,
Till the tube touched his foot, then he jumped as though shot.
He writhed, and he kicked, he jerked and he flailed,
Frantic with pain, but it nothing prevailed.
For onward and on came that sucking death,
And his screams would have pierced, if he had any breath.
He fought for his life - it was plain to see.
If that's not awareness, what could it be?
But the Doctor in dealing out death was precise,
His degree from Dachau, his heart was black ice.
Though the little guy tried, and Oh, how he tried!
He jerked, and he kicked, mouthing screams, terrified,
Effort was futile, escape was denied,
Dismembered, and bleeding, he slowed, and he died.
EVIL! Grotesquely, obscenely wrong!
I don't care a whit the size of the throng,
Who on their brooms screaming, howling for choice,
Fly cross the moon shrieking, the Banshee's own voice!
The child CHOSE not to suffer, he chose not to die,
Their shrill screech of choice is a damnable lie!
They're without natural mercy, without common grace!
The truth of the issue is that child's tortured face.