'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Iraq
not a soldier was free from fear of attack.
Their rifles were hung next to their bunks with care,
in hopes that the enemy would not be there.
These soldiers were not asleep even in their beds,
while visions of a suicide attacks cluttered their heads.
And generals in helmets, soldiers in bullet-proof vest,
try to settle their brains to try to get some rest.
When out in the desert there arose such a clatter,
soldiers sprang from their beds to see what was the matter.
Out to the desert they flew like a spooked deer,
they assumed combat positions and hid their fear.
The moon on the breast of an ocean of sand,
gave the frightening surrealism of an apocalyptic land,
when, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
but an approaching vehicle . . . could be something to fear.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
they knew in a moment it must be some trick.
Not heeding the soldier's warning, he and his men came,
and he shouted commands as he called them by name.
Ahmed and Hamid and all my followers loyal,
be you martyrs gifted with an afterlife royal.
Follow the Karan . . . only my versions,
and Allah will reward you with 72 virgins.
As dry sand that before the wild winds blow,
these soldiers are wishing to be back home in the snow.
So into their humvees and into their tanks,
if they survive this attack they'll certainly give thanks.
And then suddenly there was the sound of a jet.
Could this be help and out of trouble they'll get.
The jet landed in one helluva rush,
and who would dismount but President Bush.
Dressed in a flight suit from his head to his foot,
the soldiers, for this man could not root.
A bundle of old weapons he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes -- they were beady.
And his grin was kinda seedy.
In his flight suit he tried to swagger like John Wayne,
but these soldier's knew what he lacked was a brain.
He talked of a war that must be won.
He talked of elections that must be done.
We asked for more soldiers and better armour.
He said Donald Rumsfeld would probably do far more.
We told him when we're under attack,
we can't count on Iraqi soldiers to watch our back.
We were told we would be home in June,
now it's December and returning home won't be anytime soon.
Bush spoke no more, but went straight to his work,
and emptied the sack of weapons and armour that did not work.
And bringing his right hand up to his forehead to salute,
he couldn't help but admire his reflection wearing that flight suit.
He sprang to the cockpit of his jet.
He looked over the soldiers whose perils he did not get.
But I heard him exclaim, as he flew out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight!"
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