Drones do not march
against wars in Waziristan.
Drones do not fly home in coffins
with their little wings poking out the sides.
Drones are true romantics,
they have never considered an exit strategy.

Drones do not mate with the queen.
Drones have little interest in poon tang.
Drones, if you cut them, do not bleed.

Drones are not internally displaced persons,
in their hundreds of thousands,
fleeing across the South Downs.
Drones have established a beachhead
on page 17 of the better papers.
Drones’ mums are not on television complaining
that they should have been given better tailfins.

Drones are not client states.
Drones are not private sector subcontractors.
Drones, as a metaphor, are always accurate
because everything is a target.

Drones are refreshingly frank at the press conference.
Drones do not worry if that was the wrong house.
Drones know that death
is only the beginning of grieving.

Drones should have been careful what they wished for.
Drones are tireless, barely audible, closer.
And, drones, as requested,
are not in our name.

© Will Holloway 2010