Rockets Fall. We March.

They tell us the only way to be safe is through peace.

The ever-preaching, ever-hovering, voices outside of the fray, who look down on the war-mongers they see us as.

Obama talkin’ down.  Kerry, cursing us out, while he shakes hands with terrorists.

We been strugglin’ for years.  Been just trying to breathe, just trying to live, just trying to be normal.

Ain’t no being normal in that place, though.  Down in Israel, where the rockets fall when the Jews cough the wrong way.

Every few years, those rockets replace the rain, and when we try and open our umbrella, when we try and blow the clouds away, we’re told we need to let it rain down, that we should stay quiet and accept the weather.

They do it with all the rest too.  Tell us we shouldn’t have no wall.  Tell us it’s cruel.  Didn’t hear ‘em call it cruel when the bombers came in, blowing up our cafes, killing our kids.

When we put up that wall, less people died.

When we gave ‘em Gaza, more people died.

Now no more bombs from within, so they come from above.  Terrorists laughing, knowing that because we work to protect our own, world will hate us.  They use our warning leaflets to tell their kids where to run to.  Kids no longer human shields, now they’re propaganda, so the cluck-cluckers, the finger-waggers, can throw numbers at us.

Yes, yes, they keep clucking, those cluckers.  Clucking while our three boys were killed.  Excited to hear about the teen Palestinian boy, excited to cluck some more.

Meanwhile, the rockets rain.  And we’re taking out the umbrella.

While the folks in America been Stockholm-syndroming, trying to ‘stand the Boston bombers who blew off their legs, puttin’ em on the cover of the Stone, tryin’ to tell us Lanza was just crazy, can’t be his fault, let’s show him love… while all that happenin’ we known for ages what a terrorist is, a man who do anything to kill his enemies, who kill his own kids to make us look bad, who call himself a freedom fighter while he runs his territory with a sick iron fist.

“Those who are kind to the cruel will eventually become cruel to the kind,” that’s what the Talmud says.  That’s what a clucker is, with his big beak, opening and closin’, tellin’ people who hide their kids in shelters they’re bad parents.

There’s times, see.  Times for peace, times for understanding, for friendship, for all that.

Then there be time for war.

Time for death.

Those times come whether we want ‘em here or not.  And the ones with their heads in the sand, they’re liable to get their asses shot off.

And so the Jews are goin’ to war.  Not cause they like it, not cause they’re perfect, not cause they know what the hell they’re doin’.  No, cause they got no need for cluckers when they got mass-murderers hangin’ next door, knockin’ hard on that wall, tryin’ to break through.

It’s time for war, one, two, three.  March, march, Jews, and don’t stop till you finished that mission you been given.