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Ciao Chairman

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. 
Published inPoetry

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