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, Im 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 doesnt 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, Im leavin em dead.
You slick talkingheads may preach, preen and prattle,
But youre damn well not here in the thick of the battle.
Its chaotic, confusin it all comes at you fast,
So its Muj checkin out because Im going to last.
Yeah, Ill last through this fight and send his ass away
To his fat ugly virgins while Im still in play.
If you journalist wienies think thats cold, cruel and crass,
Then pucker up sweeties, kiss a fightin mans ass.
Russ Vaughn
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