A Plan Only A Mother(somethin) Could Love

Today, our President, whose approval rating in at least one poll stands at a mere 37 percent, announced that his administration will give no timetable for troop withdrawal, flapping in our faces a 35-page coloring book, "National Strategy for Victory in Iraq." Nice. The response was swift and sharp; even Richard Lugar, Republican Senator from Indiana and fellow Denison graduate, doesn't buy this cheap crap anymore. Why should any of us? Really, good LORD. Just look at that smug, satisfied schoolyard bully face. What a creep.

Yesterday, Jim took a stroll along the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in Washington, DC. Looking at this photo of his hand sweeping over the pages bearing the names of the dead tells me we've learned nothing, and makes me wonder how soon we should start planning the next Wall.

Bush, Cheney, Rummy, Condi, Rove, and all their mewling, puking minions are nothing but overgrown spoiled brats. What they each need is not a good spanking, but to kneel down in the desert next to some poor boy from Carolina with his intestines flayed out of his gut, hold his hand until he dies, and then call his momma with a camera phone. And then, they can take that boy's place in line.

Not to beat a dead war horse, but there's a version of this Dylan classic, "Master's of War," on Tim O'Brien's Red on Blonde cd (1996 Howdy Skies Records). To me, appropriate penance for these bozos while awaiting trial would be locking them each, alone, in a completely dark room, blaring this song over and over. I couldn't find the Tim version, but you should be able to hear at least the first verse sung by Dylan in 1963 by clicking on the title.

"Masters of War"
Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to knowI can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead