It's The One In The Suit Who's Firing The Gun Poem by David Clinch

She comes down the road, naked and running.
Her body is burning, the planes are still bombing.
This picture has long stayed locked in the brain,
The little girl fleeing the chemical rain.

The gunships unload their cargoes of fear.
The apocalypse now, through terror and tears.
They said the napalm just washed off the skin
So they added a substance to burn it right in

The Doctor is dead, lying face to the ground.
The Doctor is dead, a conscience unbound.
The Doctor is dead, with his poisoned career.
In the silence of death they're raising a cheer.

Thousands of bodies struck still in a town,
No desert wind is raising them now.
A killer hangs unseen and unsmelled
Supplied to a tyrant by the Angels of Death.

The Doctor is dead, lying face to the ground.
The Doctor is dead, a conscience unbound.
The Doctor is dead, with his poisoned career.
In the silence of death they're raising a cheer

Whose knowledge and skill help these nightmares arrive?
While industrial death pours from the skies.
The masters of war are still beating their drums
And it's the one in the suit who's firing the gun.

The Doctor is dead, lying face to the ground.
The Doctor is dead, a conscience unbound.
The Doctor is dead, with his poisoned career.
In the silence of death they're raising a cheer