Veteran's Day
How liberals do defy the mind
For nothing in theirs' can we find,
That willingly will look with reason
At how their man committed treason,
Skulked off to Paris this effete
To grovel at the Madame's feet,
Betraying his sworn officer's oath
To become the turncoat we so loathe.
Our law is clear you shall not treat
With America's foes nor their cadres meet;
Give aid nor comfort to enemy forces
Nor espouse a view from hostile sources.
Without a mandate from the state
Wherefrom your right to negotiate?
Was treason, John, and is treason still
To this very day your unpaid bill.
Don't try to hide behind your youth.
You knew the law you knew the truth.
You knew your faux negotiation
Would further tear our war-torn nation
And all for what, John, your career
So you can shameless brazen here,
And claim now that you're fit to lead
The very nation you made bleed?
And yet before us there you stand
With medals blazing you demand
Such treachery we must ignore
Your treason that lost us our war.
But hold on, John, we veterans say,
You had your turn, now comes our day.
You thought we slept, forgot your crime?
Oh no, John boy, it's come our time.
Some say let you apologize
But that won't do it in our eyes.
A man astride of each position
Could we believe your true contrition?
The vindication we'll accept
In settling up this long-held debt,
Is each of us will do his best
To deny you, John, your lifelong quest.
Listen carefully John to what we say, November 2d is Veterans' Day.
Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66
The Last Battle of Vietnam
It never occurred to me, ever before,
That our Navy would win the Vietnam War.
When they took to their boats in this year of elections,
With the mission of making some major corrections
I shared their belief, John should not be elected,
And their view overdue, truth should be resurrected.
Yet I questioned the course they'd set themselves for,
Knowing how John was loved by the media whore.
Ignored and dismissed by the media queens
Being shrewd, savvy sailors they still found the means
To reach out to the people, to open their eyes
To a phony John Kerry and his war story lies.
With their very first ad, they torpedoed his boat,
A Cambodian Christmas would no longer float.
His heroics unraveled, his stories fell flat,
Especially that one 'bout his magical hat.
John called on his lawyers and media whores,
And threatened the Swiftees with vile legal wars.
But these warriors kept charging back into the fire,
And made the folks wonder, "Is Kerry a Liar?"
Till the question of whether he's telling the truth
Was still in their minds in the election day booth.
So the brave Swiftees gave us what we'd not had before,
They gave us our victory in the Vietnam War.
Those brave, stalwart sailors, falsely labeled as liars,
Stood firm and stood tall, kept directing their fires,
Steadfast, unrelenting, they served once again,
And defeated John Kerry, these honorable men.
All Vets can take pride, yes all, not just some,
That we won the last battle of Vietnam.
It took far too long to bring an end to our war
But we did, November Second, Two Thousand Four.
To our Brothers, forever on that long black Wall,
You've been vindicated now, one and all.
Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66
Liberals love America like O.J. loved Nicole
As Ann Coulter said, bless her scathing sharp soul,
Liberals love America like O.J. loved Nicole.
Sad words those may be, but with ire they must fill us,
If the Left can’t control us, they’d just as soon kill us.
It’s a madness you see, coming full to the fore,
Since they lost every battle of 2004.
The weaker seek shrinks while the blamers point fingers,
And the madness just festers, the lunacy lingers.
They had trusted John Kerry to lead from above,
But the problem with that was his hand fit the glove.
And the Swift Boat detectives took us far back in time,
Shining their hard bright light on the Perp and his crime.
The psychosis blooms full and the future’s not rosy,
As long as they’re led by the likes of Pelosi.
The symptoms are glaring, prognosis is poor
Till en masse, they pass, their worm, Michael Moore.
So the Left can’t win fairly, can’t win at the poll?
Then they’ll seek other ways to defeat and control.
Undermine our elections, give aid to our foe,
To debase, to deface, a Nicole-U.S. Ho.’
O.J. had a jury that saw it his way,
But believe me you Lefties, it’s come a new day,
Red State America sits the main jury seat
And for your socialist goals, that spells jury defeat.
If you believe as I do, O.J. murdered Nicole,
Then you believe as I do, he was out of control.
Like crazed Lefties stabbing at our nation’s heart,
He was crazy with loss, acting stupid, not smart.
Will America share the same fate as Nicole?
Slashed, shattered and battered for resisting control?
No, Nicole-America has punch in her Right,
And this time Juice Lefties,
THIS BLONDE’S GONNA FIGHT!
Russ Vaughn
When the World Dials 911
Disaster strikes a world away
We get the call, what do we say?
We move at once, to ease their plight,
To aid them through their darkest night.
But come shrill cries from carping Press,
That’s not enough to fix this mess.
We know that, fools, but give us room,
To counter Mother Nature’s doom.
America gives to those in need,
With no regard to faith or creed.
We’re there for all when need is great
A helping hand to any state,
That’s fallen under Nature’s wrath
And needs a lift back to the path.
So what they may have mocked our ways?
We’ll turn our cheek ‘til better days.
But there are those who hate us so,
They’ll carp and snipe and hit us low,
Who’ll bend disaster to their needs,
And try to choke us on our deeds.
They’ll play their dirty liberal tricks,
For them it’s only politics.
In the face of massive human pain,
They only think of their own gain.
But the world knows sure whom it must call,
When disaster strikes, when nations fall.
America is the beaming light
That fades, dispels disaster’s night,
And standing firm provides relief
To salve the pain, allay the grief.
So to Hell with what our critics say,
America’s fine, still leads the way.
Russ Vaughn
How many Liberals does it take to win a war?
How many of you Liberals does it take to win a war?
Well how the hell can we tell? You won’t fight one anymore.
You say that you support the troops, but the truth’s plain as
your face,
You’d pull us from the battle, march us home in full disgrace.
You’ve no stomach for the fighting, got no mettle, got no pluck;
If you ran this war on terror, we’d be a very well plucked duck.
The wolves of Jihad smell your dread, can smell your craven breath,
And emboldened by the fear they scent, lust for our bloody death.
“But wait,” you protest piously , “We are fighters
for the poor.”
Might we suggest you start to fight, before wolves come through the
door?
Do you think they’ll still believe in you, your poor, your gays,
your blacks,
When the wolves run wild among them, sinking fangs into their backs?
Think then that they’ll be caring, when they’re counting
out their dead,
We inflict pain on a captive wolf to learn what’s in his head?
Do you really think, you bleeding hearts, when they bleed in scarlet
torrents,
They’ll care we cage the savage wolves, search lairs without signed
warrants?
For years we watched your “feel good” courts defang our
criminal laws,
Handcuff our police, give felons rights, espouse the criminals’
cause.
Felonious wolves were freed to prey, and we suffered their wild rages
Till “thinking” men took back the courts, put the wolf packs
back in cages.
With your same old clueless “feelings” you now decry this
war;
And with your same old fuzzy logic, common sense you still ignore.
We must look into “root causes” and we must try to “feel
their pain;”
Pardon if our eyes start rolling, at your same old lame refrain.
It’s hard to fathom whence you come, perhaps some flawed eugenics,
That begets utopian pessimists, sires optimistic cynics.
Thanks be the power to rule the land remains beyond your means;
A regime of yours, would be like, no doubt, being ruled by pimpled teens.
Your quixotic quest for a world love nest, denies some truths quite
real,
Like the need to have some “thinking” folks to preserve
your right to “feel.”
Abhorring blood on your own hands, there’s a hard truth you’ve
ignored,
Someone else must take your plowshare, and beat it back into a sword.
So how many of you Liberals does it take to win a war?
Or is there simply nothing you believe worth fighting for?
How is it that you’ve never learned, like most when they grow
older,
That appeasing badness is a bad idea, only makes the bad guys bolder.
Has your fear of spilling human blood made you Jihad’s useful
fools,
Ignoring that their wolf packs never fight within the rules?
By your demand we stay our hand, you weaken and you bind us;
Forcing us to fight off wolf attacks with that hand tied behind us.
So we bend some rules, in war you fools; so what? Show some respect,
When it’s your fuzzy-headed “feelings” “thinking”
men fight to protect.
Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66
The Question
The question you must ask yourself
As you head off to your poll,
Is who you trust to lead us now
That survival is our goal.
We tread the path of Jihad’s wrath,
Where misstep could spell doom,
And future times of horrid climes,
In Holocaust’s gray gloom.
What then again I’ll ask of you,
Should be our true agendas,
Privilege and prosperity
Or ways to best defend us?
Affluence won’t concern us much,
Other problems will confound us,
When our cities lie in smoking ruins,
With destruction all around us.
What sort of man I ask you now
Do we really want to lead us?
A nuanced pol, who talks and talks,
While Jihadis grimly bleed us?
Or a fighter, who will walk the walk,
Take the battle to them there,
Force their hand and make them stand,
Destroy them in their lair?
This veteran says let’s fight them there;
Lure all those fanatic fools,
To where they face armed fighting men,
Not children in their schools.
I know how I shall vote this time,
I’ll vote to win this war;
Not to let John Kerry lose it,
As he did mine long before.
Russ Vaughn
Fightin’ Words
You media pansies may squeal and may squirm,
But a fightin’ man knows that the way to confirm,
That some jihadist bastard truly is dead,
Is a brain-tappin’ round fired into his head.
To hell with some wienie with his journalist degree
Safe away from the combat, tryin’ to tell me,
I should check him for breathin,’ examine his eyes.
Nope, I’m punchin’ his ticket to Muj paradise.
To hell with you wimps from your Ivy League schools,
Sittin’ far from the war tellin’ me about rules
And preachin’ to me your wrong-headed contention
That I should observe the Geneva Convention,
Which doesn’t apply to a terrorist scum
So evil and cruel their own people run from,
Cold-blooded killers who love to behead,
Shove that mother’ Geneva, I’m leavin’ em dead.
You slick talkingheads may preach, preen and prattle,
But you’re damn well not here in the thick of the battle.
It’s chaotic, confusin’ it all comes at you fast,
So it’s Muj checkin’ out because I’m going to last.
Yeah, I’ll last through this fight and send his ass away
To his fat ugly virgins while I’m still in play.
If you journalist wienies think that’s cold, cruel and crass,
Then pucker up sweeties, kiss a fightin’ man’s ass.
Russ Vaughn
The Sheepdogs
Most humans truly are like sheep
Wanting nothing more than peace to keep
To graze, grow fat and raise their young,
Sweet taste of clover on the tongue.
Their lives serene upon Life's farm,
They sense no threat nor fear no harm.
On verdant meadows, they forage free
With naught to fear, with naught to flee.
They pay their sheepdogs little heed
For there is no threat; there is no need.
To the flock, sheepdog's are mysteries,
Roaming watchful round the peripheries.
These fang-toothed creatures bark, they roar
With the fetid reek of the carnivore,
Too like the wolf of legends told,
To be amongst our docile fold.
Who needs sheepdogs? What good are they?
They have no use, not in this day.
Lock them away, out of our sight
We have no need of their fierce might.
But sudden in their midst a beast
Has come to kill, has come to feast
The wolves attack; they give no warning
Upon that calm September morning
They slash and kill with frenzied glee
Their passive helpless enemy
Who had no clue the wolves were there
Far roaming from their Eastern lair.
Then from the carnage, from the rout,
Comes the cry, "Turn the sheepdogs out!"
Thus is our nature but too our plight
To keep our dogs on leashes tight
And live a life of illusive bliss
Hearing not the beast, his growl, his hiss.
Until he has us by the throat,
We pay no heed; we take no note.
Not until he strikes us at our core
Will we unleash the Dogs of War
Only having felt the wolf pack's wrath
Do we loose the sheepdogs on its path.
And the wolves will learn what we've shown before;
We love our sheep, we Dogs of War.
Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66
Rough Men
There’s a character trait that’s decided by fate
Comes “sadly” to many, far too faint, far too late.
They won’t face the aggressor, stand up to his ire
They have not the will to fight his fire with fire.
So they bend over backwards to see all sides as fair,
Till they’re faced with dragon breath fire in their hair.
Like our brethren in France, who’d know better than we,
Yet seem never to learn, seem doomed never to see.
Yes, it seems there are some who’re determined by fate,
To possess not the courage to step up to the plate,
Who shrink from all threat because nothing’s worth war.
But how can they know lest they’ve been there before?
Thank God some have courage, the will, yes, the grace,
To stand for the shirkers, stand strong in their place.
Thank God we have stalwarts who’ll stand for us all,
Who will rise to the challenge at their nation’s call.
The faint-hearted, who fear, whose reaction is flight,
Have no comprehension of those who will fight.
To hide their own trepidation they attempt to demean
The rough men, who defend them, as barbaric, obscene.
Yet these rough men stand ready, hard weapons to hand,
To put placaters behind them, draw a line in the sand,
To preserve for the peaceniks what they won’t defend,
So their own unearned freedom won’t perish, won’t end.
To appeasers, rough men are coarse government tools.
To rough men, appeasers are dumb delusional fools.
Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66
The Gang That Won’t Shoot Straight
It began when ol’ Dubya gave Al Gore the boot,
Those gun-hating Dems really started to shoot.
Their weapons of choice though leave much to desire
For they’re usually off-target and so often misfire.
In his blustering barrages, as everyone knows,
Al Gore is most likely to blow off his own nose.
And in hitting his targets, Teddy’s chances are slimmer
He’s no better at bombast than he was as a swimmer.
John Kerry took aim at Bush’s war in Iraq
But salvoes from Swiftees left him smoking black.
Daschle went to Dakota with all barrels loaded;
When the smoke finally cleared, he had clearly imploded.
They were gunning for George, but without enough practice
And ended up full of holes, their butts full of cactus.
That dimwitted cowboy turned out muy mal
Blew the Libs clean away at their O.K. Corral
Howard Dean, more than most, embodies the phrase,
“Shoot yourself in the foot,” yet may see better days.
If DNC chiefs decide the Party needs Deaning,
Shooting yourself in the foot will have Party-wide meaning.
Senator Boxer shot holes in her own reputation,
Taking potshots at Condi before the whole nation.
We can’t wait for the chance to see Nancy Pelosi,
Take aim at ol’ George: “BAM!” there goes her toesy.
We’ll not tolerate lying, fumes Senator Dayton,
A lightweight compared to the lady he’s baitin.’
But he shoots from the lip and quite clearly he misses,
While eighty-five colleagues hand out Condi kisses.
This “Gang that won’t shoot straight,” is really no
puzzle,
Did you ever see a Lib knew his butt from his muzzle?
Have you fathomed the lesson that runs through this poem?
All guns should have locks if there are Libs in the home.
Russ Vaughn
Mad How Disease
Words recently read have just so made my day,
Some whimsical wisdom from sage Austin Bay,
Who points out profoundly and slick as you please,
The Democrat Party has Mad How Disease.
The infection most certainly is iatrogenic,
From too many visits to Dr. Dean’s clinic.
They should have been warned that they should be wary
Of getting too chummy with the Left’s Typhoid Mary.
With such manifest symptoms, diagnosis is simple,
That boil on their butt is now more than a pimple.
Diagnosing the pathogen’s really no chore:
Yellow streak down the back, an aversion to war.
Beginning mid-body there’s a leftward progression,
Higher levels of bile and mounting aggression.
Some victims of Mad How go totally postal,
Especially those diagnosed as being bi-coastal.
A most telling trait is a Roquefort stench
And delirious devotion to anything French.
Older victims on campus seem sallow and pale
With that sure sign of Mad How, a grey pony-tail.
Repetitive chanting, waving x-rated banners,
Are significant symptoms, as are infantile manners.
Shouts of “Vietnam!” and “Quagmire!” as foul
epithets,
Could lead one to conclude this a form of Tourettes.
So what’s the prognosis for the Party’s infection?
That depends what is in the mad doctor’s injection.
If it’s more toxic serums of weakness and fear,
The fate of the victims is fatally clear.
Despairingly cynical, brimming with hate,
They’re likely to share the other dodo bird’s fate,
An ignoble end to their political journey,
A sheet over the face and Rove pushing the gurney.
Russ Vaughn
Naught’s Solved by War?
A flickering dawn lights Islam’s hills
A faint emerging light.
Can the torch of Lady Liberty
Flare away Medieval night?
How fitting our bold symbol
Of all that’s good and right
Eyewitness to the Jihad’s wrath,
Stands forefront in this fight.
Her torch is not mere sculpted bronze,
To those in Mullahs’ chains;
But a lamp held high against the sky
Showing them that hope remains.
Their feudal sheiks view us with scorn,
So obsessed with earthly pleasure;
But one thing they fear that we hold dear,
Is that Bill of Rights we treasure.
We drove a tyrant from his throne,
Brought his people free election.
Think it concerns them overmuch,
WMD’s escaped detection?
Just behold those blue-stained fingers,
Like the Lady’s torch, held high,
So proud of their brave turnout,
Putting Liberals to the lie.
How say you now nay Sayers?
What of your dire predictions?
Like fools you swore naught’s solved by war,
Another of your Liberal fictions.
But now you face a hard clear truth:
A truth that you forswore:
This aborning Bush Democracy
Was midwifed by his war.
Within the womb of Islam,
Freedom’s heart so feebly beats.
Is it up us to make it thrive,
To birth it their streets?
What say you disbelieving Libs,
How now shall this thing go?
Shall we execute your exit plan,
Or stay and help it grow?
Russ Vaughn
The “No Right Answer” Game
Inspired by “ The Wrong Army,” by Jeff Edwards, USN, Ret.,
warrior and novelist
America’s forces have won all their wars,
From Revolution to war in Iraq;
And Lefties don’t point to the Vietnam War,
Where you stabbed winning troops in the back.
No, the truth is we win; we win time and again;
Done it time after time after time.
Doesn’t matter to you, ‘cause whatever we do,
We’ve always somehow dropped the dime.
To Lefties our generals just have to be wrong,
Wrong tactics, wrong weapons, wrong forces;
We’re the gang who somehow can never shoot straight,
To hear the mainstream media sources.
Just look at their headlines, view every day’s news,
With their blistering barrages of blame.
To warriors out here at the point of the spear,
It’s those losers’ “No Right Answer,” game.
In this lugubrious game loved by Liberal elites,
There’s just but one rule to enforce:
Whatever we do, in whatever war,
Must naturally be wrong of course.
There is no right answer, no matter what,
Even when our warriors are winning;
There’s always the sly implication we lie,
In the splenetic stories they’re spinning.
In peacetime they charge our forces too large
During wartime they squall they’re too small;
In peacetime they whine we’re spending too much;
But in war, “Where’s the armor for all?”
With consummate confidence they know what’s best,
Puerile pundits so smug and so smarmy,
Pontificate loud to their Liberal crowd,
That we once again have the wrong Army.
Pick a war, any war, or a period of peace;
Field marshals of the media are spinning;
If generals of journalism are so in the know,
Why are genuine generals winning?
So here at the front, harsh home of the grunt,
We ignore their attempts to defame.
The troops know the score, know what this war’s for;
They can stuff their “No Right Answer,” game.
SSGT Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66
“The Wrong Army” can be found here:
http://www.military.com/Opinions/0,14790,Edwards_031405-P1,00.html
Liberal Experts
The things most Liberal’s
Think they’re experts on,
Are usually the things,
They've never done.
While their rhetoric’s raucous,
Their record is poor
In suiting up for the game,
Or volunteering for war.
It’s so easy to think
You’re calling it right,
When you’re not on the field,
Or involved in the fight;
To piously protest
The spilling of blood,
While not one drop of yours
Lies mixed with the mud.
Oh yes it’s so easy
To be scolding and bold,
When you’ve not felt the fear
Makes the blood run ice cold.
Standing safe on the sidelines,
Do you never feel shame,
When you’re bawling at us
That we’re blowing the game?
Till you’ve carried the rifle,
Till you’ve handled the ball,
Just sit down and shut up
And let us make the call.
To you few Liberal warriors,
Who truly give us your best,
We wish your hearts and cojónes
Were shared by the rest.
Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66
The Eagle and the Serpents
Such discord now ‘tween you and us,
Mainstream Media and populace:
You envenom all that we hold dear,
And revel in those things we fear.
You denigrate our national pride
Taking always now the others’ side.
A Media mamba, a poisonous pest
That lurks within our Eagle’s nest.
You arrogant adders puffed with pride,
We know truth’s on our Eagle’s side;
And care not what you snakes declare,
We’ve had it with your venomous fare.
Our Eagle soars above your wrath,
Your tortured, twisted serpents’ path.
From your low crawl, you fail to see,
Our Eagle strikes have set men free.
Now the Eagle from his lofty post,
Looks down upon your hissing host,
Who poison every good intent,
With noxious toxins you invent.
Like diamondbacks you loudly rattle,
Strike fear in those you deem but cattle;
But your cattle now look to the sky,
See the Eagle soaring, and know you lie.
Can you Media serpents win this fight?
Bring our Eagle down from newfound height?
No longer now caged up by you,
Only negative news to shape our view.
The Internet set our Eagle free,
Now we can hear, now we can see.
A Mainstream Media hissing lies,
Spitting blinding venom in our eyes.
Our Eagle’s spied you false purveyors,
Just negative fools and foul naysayers.
The Eagle knows now he is right,
That he’s with honor in this fight.
And despite your biting fanged attacks,
He’ll land upon your serpent backs;
An image that should give you pause:
A thrashing snake in Eagle’s claws.
Russ Vaughn
Fightin’ Side of Me
It’s now clear there can be no ambivalence
About the Liberals’ moral equivalence;
Where they now have lost all perspective,
Or any desire to be truly objective.
Their comparisons began to be troubling
When “Fats” Moore got their fuzzy heads bubbling,
With his “terrorists as Minutemen” inanity,
That unleashed all this Liberal insanity.
Amnesty twits poured “Moore” fuel on the fire;
Their calling Gitmo a gulag was sure to inspire
The loons on the Left to more treasonous tropes,
And “Moore” metaphors from fifth columnist dopes,
With Bush-hating congressmen carping, complaining
About conditions no worse than my own basic training,
Where screaming mad sergeants deprive you of sleep,
Make you sleep on cold ground, and herd you like sheep.
Had they ever served, our deceitful Dick Durbins
They’d have more than hot air in their treasonous turbans;
Had they worn the uniform, endured deprivation
They might not so quickly condemn their own nation.
Founding fathers were terrorists Brian Williams indicts,
Another media effete who never fought for his rights.
With their traitorous comparisons, the Libs fail to see
They’re getting dangerously close to “the fightin’
side of me.”
Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66
Go here for Merle Haggard’s classic, Fightin’ Side of Me:
http://www.cowboylyrics.com/lyrics/haggard-merle/fightin-side-of-me-496.html
Handmaidens Of Terror?
Michelle Malkin notes, I believe with some error,
The politically correct are handmaidens of terror.
But handmaiden may be a too-mild appellation
For the worms at the core of the threat to our nation,
Who are far more concerned with our socialist purity,
Than commonsense measures for our nation’s security.
They’ll insist we don’t need anti-terrorist powers,
Till terror bombs blow down their own ivory towers.
More than mere handmaids in true servile sense,
They’re concubines of correctness in Jihadist tents,
Plying socialist sweetmeats to death-dealing masters,
Naively abetting more future disasters.
Respect our dark brothers say these houris beguiling,
No need for your paranoid, racist profiling.
Forget swarthy males from the East caused our losses,
We must share their pain, understand their root causes.
These handmaids ignore their own reasoning powers,
Like no grannies flew planes into those twin towers;
Or why we’re not shown after a terror event,
Any mug shots of men of Caucasian descent.
They insist we ignore facts as plain as their faces,
Like Islamo-fascists tend to be certain races.
No, Michelle, dear, I fear that handmaiden’s in error,
Simply too mild a term for these true whores for terror.
Russ Vaughn
Inspired by Michelle Malkin’s column here:
http://www.townhall.com/columnists/michellemalkin/mm20041201.shtml
Jihad Jane
With a hat tip to Ollie North for the title
http://www.townhall.com/columnists/ollienorth/on20050729.shtml
What a prize to show for her life of toil,
A bus that runs on vegetable oil;
To keep it running will prove no strain,
Run a fuel line from her peanut brain.
As once again she shows us all
How wrong we are and how we’ll fall.
She’ll grant no quarter, cut no slack,
Get her picture taken on a camel’s back.
Jihad Jane will show us once again,
She’s smarter than all the President’s men;
I doubt Sun Tzu could tell us more
Than Jihad Jane when it comes to war;
She’ll save the world, bold Barbarella,
More wily and wise than any Army fella.
While she fancies herself truly Machiavellian
A more apt description is piggy Orwellian.
It’s true Jane could write an encyclopedia
On fooling the drooling mainstream media.
Princes of primetime breathlessly follow;
Sputum she spouts they eagerly swallow.
Trumpet her tripe as trustworthy truth,
Pushing her pap down the throats of our youth.
Reporters will climb right on down in that sewer,
Covering every mile of Jane’s veggie-fueled tour.
While wiser minds wait, holding their breath,
Warily wondering just how much death
All her agitprop antics will incite this time,
And whose lives will be forfeit for one fool’s crime.
In most scripts of life, we become wiser with age;
But this airhead actress cannot get to that page.
So she’ll be well remembered, as well she should,
As the dumbest damned broad in Hollywood.
Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Infantry
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66
A Useful Death
A mother’s anguish turns to ire,
Her liquid tears to spears of fire,
A useful fool for the liberal Left,
All hatred now, no more bereft.
The honor which her son embraced,
Is now dishonored, now disgraced,
As his mother stands atop his grave,
From there to shriek, from there to rave.
Yes, some are maddened in their grief,
And grief can surely change belief;
But this woman’s views, her family say,
Have long been held, long fore today,
Enabling Leftists to use her grieving,
For Moore deception, Moore deceiving.
I see this mother as a willing fool,
A useful Moorish Code Pinko tool.
As one who fought in another place,
I sorrow for this boy’s disgrace,
By a zealot mother grafting grief
Stealing his brave deeds, an honor thief,
Usurping his valor to claim her share,
Five minutes of fame in Media’s glare.
Her platform one you don’t see often:
A dishonored, flag-draped, soldier’s coffin.
I can hear Michael Moore muttering under his breath,
“Yeah, this was really a useful death.”
Russ Vaughn
Force Multipliers