The finish line’s crossed, His checker-flagged head Signals to all That Arafat’s dead. He’s been in the race For a number of years; I can’t recall times That he wasn’t here. Accepted by some, While others reviled, His half-bearded face And his sinister smile. At the U. N. he once On a podium placed A gun he produced As the diplomats faced. A lifetime of violence, The heart of his beat; He fought in the desert And he fought in the street. The Arabs, they chased him Out of their land; Banished to Gaza He lived in the sand. An impotent king, He sat on the throne Of a border-less state That peace hasn’t known. Now that he’s passed They’ll mourn or rejoice; He had that effect - I’ve made my own choice.