Strength of Feeling

The pain of those unhappy lands
Doth make us wring our sweaty hands;
Our beady little eyes grow damp
To see a concentration camp.

As suffering grows more profound,
We make a disapproving sound;
But even though we do no more,
Our allies go on as before.

Intolerable though it be
To witness such indignity,
Still by some cruel whim of fate
Events remain indelicate.

Samuel Grimsnipe