Flowers for Falluja

As I've said in the past and keep saying
I have sat through this movie before.
Why, I even was cast as an extra
Before being shown the door.

And I've tried to remember those lessons
That I purchased with so much pain
And not see America do once more
What I now see it doing again.

As the siege of a city begins to take shape
And the killing in earnest begins
I remember those times when the darkness closed `round
And men started repenting their sins.

Now a President's dove in and broken his neck
Jumping head first into a dry pool
And with horrified onlookers gazing in dread
He continues to snarl, spit, and drool.

"I will never get run out of town," he exclaims
Having entered at no one's request.
And having been asked once politely to leave
He behaves like an ill-tempered guest.

"Since I broke it, I own it," he says of Iraq.
But Iraq's not some gift he can give.
It's a country with people who like to pretend
That they know best how they want to live.

See, our President thinks like a pottery shill
And supposes that broken means owned.
But the people he's broken don't like it that much
And suggest that he just go get stoned.

Like those freeloading days back in college
When cheering meant parties and dope.
And nothing but brain cells got wasted and killed
And a people could still keep their hope.

"But I will not feel doubt," he exclaims to himself
And his mirror reflects his resolve.
"I will stand firm," he says as his knees start to quake
And his "courage" begins to dissolve.

See, he'll never admit that he made a mistake
And change policy once it's gone bad.
He would rather be wrong and keep talking with "God"
Than be right and go talk to his dad.

`Cause his dad ain't got strength like "the Lord," don't you know
And he only consults with the best
Like those voices at night that advise him to dream
And leave governing up to the rest.

And George Tenet told Dubya about the "slam dunk"
Which in basketball terms means "a cinch."
Like whenever the FBI measures a mile
And the CIA calls it an inch.

So those weapons we heard of that meant us such harm
Didn't really exist in the fog.
Just because he hung "vicious beast" signs on his gate
Doesn't mean that Saddam had a dog.

Yes, our spies sure know how to keep hidden
All the stuff that nobody should know
So they stamp it TOP SECRET and file it away
In a place where nobody can go.

Thus we keep seeing trees and not forests
And we keep seeing forests, not trees
While the young GI sprawls in the dust of Iraq
With his guts spilling over his knees

And the young GI dies when her tin car explodes
As she drives through a city in strife
Leaving only her unit and family to grieve
At the loss of another young life.

Still, the man in the White House he struts and he frets
With his hour on the stage nearly done.
To this idiot player the tale signifies
That the sound and the fury are one.

"We are here, `cause we're here, `cause we're here, `cause we're here,"
Goes the slogan from Vietnam days.
And we surely can't leave, because leaving would mean
That we'd found our way out of the maze.

Now, the Lord of all Love told young Dubya to smite,
So the boy smote Saddam on the head
But those ingrate Iraqis they smote Dubya back
And now thousands of GIs are dead.

The returns they diminish so quickly
When a billion or more you must pay
To destroy what the "bad guy" rebuilds in an hour
And makes use of the following day.

Like we learned in Vietnam - as some of us did,
How the debt into billions it runs
`Till the good folks at home have to give up their butter
Or else begin eating their guns.

Then the choices arise that no one wants to face
Because somebody's ox will get gored.
Politicians, you see, hate to give up their own
When they'd rather be looting your hoard.

So the tax cuts go draining the money away
`Till the last dollar's taken to flight.
Once again it's the rich ones who've started a war
And then run off to let the poor fight.

And Tom Ridge goes on flashing those color alerts
While the public works mowing the lawn.
"What, another attack of the `credible' type?
You mean `credulous,' don't you?" they yawn.

But the voters can rest in their comfort and ease
And continue like sheep in their flocks.
While the young GI dies in the dirt of Iraq
And comes home in a flag-covered box.

See, the "enemy" lives in that hell of a place
And, in fact, it is all that he owns
So he'll fight there and die there as long as he must
`Till the last flesh has left the last bones.

You can pound all the buildings to rubble.
You can kill all that can't run away.
You can kill and keep killing and then kill some more,
But the hunger for freedom will stay.

In America freedom means bondage.
In America fools run the show.
In America no one knows what the words mean
When the word-magic says, "stop" means "go."

And the Newspeak keeps pouring from out of the mouths
Of the spokesmen for nation and town.
Until sov'reign means slav'ry and choosing means chains
And swimming means freedom to drown.

So then keep them in darkness and feed them on shit
If you wish for your mushrooms to grow
And so shoveling shit's now the plan of the day
In America: last place to know.

But the Truth will come `round in the fullness of time
Like the rough slouching beast at the door.
Who keeps knocking and knocking and won't go away
`Till you've fed it your children, and more.

But the children don't matter, because as we know
The word "children" means "their kids" not ours.
So the "Draft" doesn't scare us because it means "them"
And not us -- so let's just tend our flowers.

Michael Murry, "The Misfortune Teller," Copyright © 2005