Author's Statement
This 2nd term... what a grind!
Despite the fact that so much is happenning I'm going numb. Is it sensory overload or fatigue or denial or have I succumbed to the siren song of government propaganda?
I will not relent. The second term marches on. Let the captives rejoice!
Table of Contents
- First Hunnerd Days
- The Test
- The Scandal of N. Ron
- Let's Roll!
- Back at The Ranch...
- 2002--A Very Good Year
- 2003
- Road To Baghdad
- Mission Accomplished
- Loosening up
- Kalifornia
- Say Ahhhh....
- Political Season
- Early Returns
- Adbul Grub
- The Debates
- 'Lection Day
- Political Capital
- Autopilot
- Summer of Flood
"The Ballad" was featured on Pacifica Radio's "Beneath The Surface." Click here to listen (.mp3 700K)
The Ballad of The Bush Leagues, Chapter 20
The Summer of Flood
Summer in Texas brings a heat you can taste
And there's nothing like a beer to give it the chase.
Crack one open, drink it straight from the can,
It takes a little pressure off a nat'ral man.
None knows this better than 43,
"I could drink a twelver without havin' to pee!"
He used to hit the sauce as often as he pleased,
Maybe top it off with a little freeze...
"I remember those days… oochin' through the haze…
But all I drink is sparkling cider these days
If the devil comes knockin' I just grab my ax and
Go on a little salt-cedar attack.
[PHONE RINGS]
"Karl! How ya' doin' buddy?
I was just thinkin' of you.
Remember when we...
No, I'm not watchin' the news...
"Remember that time...
Alright! I'll turn on the news…
There's nothing on but tsunami highlights…
What do you mean it's Mississippi?
"Look, it's not so bad, their on their roofs
It's not like they're gonna' drown.
I'm at the ranch, what you want me to do?
Looks like a job for Mike Brown."
So he puts in a call to FEMA,
"Can you devise a disaster schema?"
Sure enough they were on it and already thought
To name the storm Katrina.
Satisfied with his delegation
George toddles off to bed,
Kisses Laura good night and as they sleep tight
A dream fills up his head.
He's at the Crawford Coffee Cup,
His favorite spot for keepin' in touch.
But this dreamy version feels a little rough
And his java comes in a tiny mug.
Smells good, though, so it's down the hatch
'Til his mouth fills with sludge that he spits right back
Then looks up to a roomful of glares
And a frightful lack of blue hair.
The faces and bodies look familiar, suburban,
Yet every last head sports a Texas-sized turban.
The dream has become a nightmare.
George is surreally bound to his chair
The diners all rise to speak in chorus
Like a Protestant hymn, a grim, dreary noise.
They tell him the fate of his nation
In a manner of castigation.
[THE DINERS]
"We are the legions who followed you
Who defended the red against the blue
But you led us astray, your words were untrue and
Now we drink boiled coffee.
"While you were on vacation, thousands drowned
Allah be praised they're martyrs now
For exposing your leadership as highly unsound
And crushing your approval ratings.
"Now we call you Infidel
Who almost fed us straight to hell
Death by stoning is your sentence,
Your only means of repentance."
As the rapid-eye rocks find their mark
George's tossing and turning wakes Laura up.
She shakes him until he opens his eyes,
[LAURA]
"Walker, what's the matter? Are you alright?
"I've got a job to do... make some decisions
About the War on Terror we're always winnin'.
Don't worry honey, it'll be okay.
They're not takin' over the US of A!"