Fitting End

He made the leap and danced on air
With all the grace of Robespierre.
He crossed the Styx; the farm is bought;
And all his railing's come to naught.
Yes, as a pendulum he swings,
While all the happy birdies sing.
The poor ol' Butcher of Baghdad
Has quite become a hanging chad.
His rule is but a sad footnote,
A terrifying anecdote.
And all the justice he denied
Was given him, for homicide.
Remember all the graves he filled,
And all the innocents he killed;
The smiles he stopped; the dreams he crushed;
The hearts he broke; the laughs he hushed.
If gallows humor's not your style,
Just tell the Kurds, and watch them smile.