You media pansies may squeal and may squirm,
But a fighting man knows that the way to confirm
That some jihadist bastard is truly 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 breathing, 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 preaching 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 leaving 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, confusing, It all comes at you fast,
So it’s Muj checking 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 fighting man’s ass.
Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment 101st Airborne Division
You do your job over there and forget about the cozy, simpleton idiots over here; comfortable in their homes, playing with their kids, waiting for Santa Claus and feeling good about themselves, bitching about how you and George Bush are fucking things all up.
Personally, I'll raise my cup to you all on Christmas morning.
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