Thunder Run

The bunker door slams
Saddam's knees quake
Like a ghost he floats on the TV tube
As the palace roof breaks
The Fifth Corps coming for the homely
Hey that's you and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face John Kerry again

Don't 'cha run back inside
you know just what I'm here for
You're scared and you're thinking
That maybe we ain't that young anymore
Show a little faith, there's Bradleys in the town
You ain't a beauty -- you're buried in the ground
and that's alright with me

You can hide `neath your covers
And study your pain
Make shields from the mothers
Throw children down the drain
Waste your summer praying in vain
For a savior to rise from these streets

Well now I ain't no hero
That's understood
All the redemption I can offer
Is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow
Hey what else can we do now
Except blow down the window
And let this gun blow off your head
Well the night's busting open
These two planes will take ya' to the dead
We got one last chance to make it real
Ya' should'a taken the President's deal
Climb in back
Hell's waiting down the tracks

Oh oh come take my hand
Ridin' out tonight to case the promised land
Oh oh Thunder Run, oh Thunder Run
oh Thunder Run
Lying out there like a killer in the sun
Hey I know it's late we can make it if we run
Oh Thunder Run, sit tight take hold
Thunder Run

Well I got this M60
And I learned how to make her talk
And my car's out back
If you're ready to take that long walk
From your front porch to my front seat
The door's open but the ride it ain't free
heyI know you're lonely
For words that I ain't spoken
But tonight we'll be free
of all the promises that you broke
There were ghosts in the eyes
Of all the boys you sent away
They haunt this dusty desert road
In the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets
They scream your name at night in the street
Your statue lies in dust at their feet
And in the lonely cool before dawn
You hear their engines roaring on
But when you get to the porch they're gone
On the wind,
so Saddam climb in
It's a town full of losers
We're pulling out of here to win.

The above is, of course, cheerfully ripped off from Bruce Springsteen. I imagine I'm not the first with this idea and it's surprising how few changes were necessary....

No. I am dumbstruck -- Michael Kelly is dead. It can't be. I just finished reading his letter from Kuwait City this morning and almost feel like I had been listening to him on the telephone. At the time I was thinking that he can't be in Kuwait -- he has a magazine to edit -- plus his work for the National Journal and his column. Not to mention his kids, Tom and Jack.

His own epitath?:

So, happily, it was for me. In the house where I was lucky enough to grow, the weather was always balmy, rain or shine. And life was always good, good or bad, and the children were always successes, succeed or fail. And the experiences were always marvelous.

Good bye Michael -- gone way too soon.

More -- links and commentary galore by Orin Judd.

Loser. This morning, going to work, I caught an interview on the local radio station with Congressman Dennis J. Kucinich (D-OH). Bill Press, formerly the liberal voice on Crossfire, led off with what he identified as the "French Question:" In essence he asked now that the war is underway, do you want the US or Iraq to win? Incredibly, Kucinich couldn't answer this question. The hosts were incredulous and even notorious Bush-critic Press was contemptuous of Kucinich's position. The best Kucinich could muster was that if the US wins it loses. At the conclusion of the segment Bill Press asked, isn't "Kucinich a French name?"

Running for President, Kucinich has given in to his lust for power. He sacrificed his beliefs on abortion and now he'd love to see a tyrant win.

Poetry and Sheepdip. April, as good students of English Lit. know, is the cruelest month (annotated). On the other hand, it's National Poetry Month, not a cruel thing. Nevertheless, poets and especially anti-war poets can be cruel.

Sam Hamill was on Fresh Air yesterday and read his "anti-war" poem which was truly a parody of the idiot left:

Sheepherder Coffee
I used to like sheepherder coffee,
a cup of grounds in my old enameled pot,
then three cups of water and a fire,

and when it's hot, boiling into froth,
a half cup of cold water
to bring the grounds to the bottom.

It was strong and bitter and good
as I squatted on the riverbank,
under the great redwoods, all those years ago.

Some days, it was nearly all I got.
I was happy with my dog,
and cases of books in my funky truck.

But when I think of that posture now,
I can't help but think
of Palestinians huddled in their ruins,

the Afghani shepherd with his bleating goats,
the widow weeping, sending off her sons,
the Tibetan monk who can't go home.

There are fewer names for coffee
than for love. Squatting, they drink,
thinking, waiting for whatever comes.

So let me start work on my anti-anti-warriors poem:

You may talk of goats and coffee
And your love of Colonel Gadhafi
And think about your books and funky trucks
But when it comes to human shields
And covering up death yields,
No one’s like the antiwar poet schmuks
In Saddam’s country side
Plenty of crimes they do hide
Atrocities like burning, torture, murder, and rape
But we could count on one man
To inflame the antiwar fans
And ignore the plain truth on videotape

It was Sam! Sam! Sam!
You brave, fearless poet Hamill Sam!
(Weapons of Mass Destruction
Torture chambers under construction)
Give Bush hell, Poet Sam

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