A Return to Scotland

If Moammar Gaddafi wants
To die a martyr, in his words,
While Libyans propel their taunts
And he for revolution girds,
I’ve got a way for him to go
That’s devilishly apropos.

Remember when the Scots turned loose
The man who bombed the Pan Am flight?
Malignancy had cooked his goose.
Three months to live, they’d do what’s right
And let him fly to Tripoli
Where nineteen months he’s been, I see.

Two-hundred seventy were killed.
Aboard and down in Lockerbie.
Yet greeting countrymen were thrilled,
Among them most flamboyantly,
Gaddafi full of hugs and raves
As though he danced on all those graves.

So if insurgents capture him
Before his forces murder them
Let’s see if he will sink or swim
Inside a drone whose rpm
In its sole motor brusquely cease
Somewhere above the Hebrides.