Naught's Solved by War?

A flickering dawn lights Islam's hills
A faint emerging light.
Can the torch of Lady Liberty
Flare away Medieval night?
How fitting our bold symbol
Of all that's good and right
Eyewitness to the Jihad's wrath,
Stands forefront in this fight.
 
Her torch is not mere sculpted bronze,
To those in mullahs' chains;
But a lamp held high against the sky
Showing them that hope remains.
Their feudal sheiks view us with scorn,
So obsessed with earthly pleasure;
But a thing they fear that we hold dear,
Is that Bill of Rights we treasure.
 
We drove a tyrant from his throne,
Brought his people free election.
Think it concerns them overmuch,
WMD's escaped detection?
Just behold those blue—stained fingers,
Like the Lady's torch, held high,
So proud of their brave turnout,
Putting Liberals to the lie.
 
How say you now nay Sayers?
What of your dire predictions?
Like fools you swore naught's solved by war,
Another of your Liberal fictions.
But now you face a hard clear truth:
A truth that you forswore:
This aborning Bush Democracy
Was midwifed by his war.
 
Within the womb of Islam,
Freedom's heart so feebly beats.
Is it up us to make it thrive,
To birth it their streets?
What say you disbelieving Libs,
How now shall this thing go?
Shall we execute your exit plan,
Or stay and help it grow?
 
Russ Vaughn is the Poet Laureate of The American Thinker.

A flickering dawn lights Islam's hills
A faint emerging light.
Can the torch of Lady Liberty
Flare away Medieval night?
How fitting our bold symbol
Of all that's good and right
Eyewitness to the Jihad's wrath,
Stands forefront in this fight.
 
Her torch is not mere sculpted bronze,
To those in mullahs' chains;
But a lamp held high against the sky
Showing them that hope remains.
Their feudal sheiks view us with scorn,
So obsessed with earthly pleasure;
But a thing they fear that we hold dear,
Is that Bill of Rights we treasure.
 
We drove a tyrant from his throne,
Brought his people free election.
Think it concerns them overmuch,
WMD's escaped detection?
Just behold those blue—stained fingers,
Like the Lady's torch, held high,
So proud of their brave turnout,
Putting Liberals to the lie.
 
How say you now nay Sayers?
What of your dire predictions?
Like fools you swore naught's solved by war,
Another of your Liberal fictions.
But now you face a hard clear truth:
A truth that you forswore:
This aborning Bush Democracy
Was midwifed by his war.
 
Within the womb of Islam,
Freedom's heart so feebly beats.
Is it up us to make it thrive,
To birth it their streets?
What say you disbelieving Libs,
How now shall this thing go?
Shall we execute your exit plan,
Or stay and help it grow?
 
Russ Vaughn is the Poet Laureate of The American Thinker.