ANAGRAMS (61)

Like waves of wine
In my glasses
Winds of invasion
Worries me

I gaze through glasses of my window,
sipping my wine
And think:
It’s an illogical logarithm!
How many suicide-bombers
Can a righteous man bomb
In a sunny Sunday morning?

And I can taste
The cost of each millimeter of a megatonic blast
In my expensive wine.
It is illogical.