By Jay Powell
That’s what they say we are.
The chicken hawk sabre rattlers
Are yellin’ at Obama ‘cause
He won’t put real boots on the ground
But they won’t say exactly that cause they know we are
And they know the VA hospitals are already bulging and too many
shell shocked stand by the roadways with cardboard signs
reminding us (of what exactly?)
They want to make sure we
know that it’s all his fault
that ISIS is slaughtering and executing anyone
who looks like they might not
toe the jihad line.
Goin’ medieval on their asses!
Heads on posts, bullets in the back of heads bowed in long lines kneeling,
saying their own goodbye as the muzzle flashes and screams death to the one
before lying next door.
And they got brand new shiny
trucks and armored
terror transporters with
gleaming guns and bullets
we left for our
keep the “peace”
we paid for so dearly.
Why did the room full of
“correspondents” think it was
so funny just a decade ago when
“W” showed his
little video of himself searching high
under the furniture, in the cushions, in the Oval Office closet for
the WMD (that he knew were never “there”)?
It took a few years and his reelection before Colbert publicly skewed Georgie porridgy
puddin’ pie in front of the same crowd
–oh, (gasping) kinda quiet then, huh?
But I digress.
What ya gonna do for our ego’s here lately, Barry?
Got Putin on a great mother Russia return to empire rush thumbing his nose at us, and
Hamas hidin’ in schools and homes lobbin’ rockets over the wall while
we pass the ammunition to Netanyahu and friends and whimper here, there and
everywhere, Kerry popping around the globe in a whack a mole mode
Got terrorists with fresh visas to land
Anywhere in the USA
Bus loads of kids wandering
across our border
and I ain’t talkin’ about no Canadians (they just want
to get their crude to New Orleans)
Get outta your mommy pants, shed your shirt and get on a wild wheeling mustang!
Get some correspondents imbedded, pronto!
We need to see some live shots of catapults hissing nasty
superheated steam whilst hurling
sex machines into the
salty air to bomb bomb bomb
with Top Gun music blasting over our hi def cable into our living rooms
in side shaking stereo: “High – way – to – the – danger zone…”
Warm us up!
Show ‘em who’s the
Greatest force for good
On the face
of this planet.
Turbines whining, thunderblast,
Not so weary now,