Little Billy sat out on his suburban roof,
thinking of his dad who had been again deployed
to the Middle East, the little boy knowing it proof
that wars would go on till the world was destroyed.
Billy sat and watched the stars above
and wished for his father to come back
because his mother withered without his love
and feared he would die in a Terrorist attack.
His father had told Billy to stay strong,
for him, his mother, and for Billy, himself,
but the war had gone on far too long
and his father became just a picture on a shelf.
Just then there fell a shooting star,
bright and white—one right after another,
and Billy watched them fall from afar,
ready to climb down and tell his mother.
But Billy waited, thinking about the wishes
he would ask for, if he could so endeavor,
and while his mother washed the dirty dishes
he asked for a world peace that would last forever.
A great glow suddenly lit up the sky,
blooming bright here and there—everywhere,
and Billy felt the force, like God’s weary sigh
blow against him with a deafening air.
It was like a cosmic genie had just made
Billy’s wish come true, his tearful desire;
the shooting stars did not flicker and fade,
but grew like a sunrise horizon of fire.
Billy’s wish was granted that very night
for they were not stars, but nukes flying fast;
nukes all around the world in a blinding light—
and so the world knew peace at long last.