Thursday, 20 November 2008
 

Downright Pi**ing
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

We work, we toil through every day,
Seeking somehow to make our way.
We pay our taxes as we should,
To contribute to the greater good.
We honestly try to observe the rules,
Even the rules bad made by fools.
But why in the world should it ever be,
That we’re the ones required to pee?
 
As employees we must pass that test,
To bleed our bladders on request;
Proving that we’re fit to pay
Our taxes that somehow go astray.
And end up in the hands of those
With no demand to drain their hose;
No urine needed for them to collect
My drug-free funded welfare check.
 
Somehow I think there’s something missing
When only producers must prove by pi**ing.
 
Russ Vaughn

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on November 20, 2008 at 11:22 PM in Poetry, Politics, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Saturday, 01 November 2008
 

Semper I
Contributed by Bill Faith

A Russ Vaughn classic in honor of the fact it looks like Mad Jack's really going down this time. Originally posted 2006.07.23.

Semper I
Semper I is an old Marine Corps term applied to those selfish careerists who place their own success ahead of their men and the wellbeing of  the Corps. Congressman John Murtha is a living example of that disgraceful term.

A bugle blows in Arlington,
Lilting notes fill still sad air,
An eagle's tears a globe fall on,
Trail an anchor with despair,
For a man we'd wish had not to die,
Brave youth among the best,
A Marine, he lived for Semper Fi,
And with Semper Fi he'll rest.

So sadly is the contrast,
Between those who talk and fight;
Fat Pols for whom their war's past,
But now can't see the light,
Accusing brave young fighting men,
Of crimes they can't defend,
Disgraceful fat old congressmen,
Who've lost the will to win.

Yes there we see the difference,
Between those who fight to win,
And a congressman with no sense,
Who's committed grievous sin;
He's turned against his Corps,
And no one knows quite why,
Except he loves himself much more:
Classic case of Semper I.

Semper Fi to all Marines everywhere from an old paratrooper who holds Murtha in as much contempt as you do.

Russ Vaughn
327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Murtha portrait courtesy of BootMurtha.com. 

Contributed by Bill Faith on November 1, 2008 at 01:15 AM in Mad Jack Murtha, Poetry, Politics, Russ Vaughn, US Marine Corps | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Wednesday, 10 September 2008
 

Ms. Underestimated?
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

Snidely Whiplashes, whiskers a twirl,
Villainous mobs of media hacks,
Frantically seek to tie down our girl,
To their snobby elite railroad tracks;
But to her rescue blog heroes flock,
Dudley Do-Rights undoing her knots,
While Sarah faces the down-ticking clock,
Unfazed by the fools? snidely plots.?

Just when the hacks think that they've won,
And have her tied flat on her back,
Dudley Do-Rights derail their foul fun,
And tie the twits themselves to the track.
Liberal media fools never learn,
Their failures leaving them frustrated,
Liberal liars foiled at each turn,
Outwitted by Ms. Underestimated.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on September 10, 2008 at 02:24 PM in Poetry, Politics, Russ Vaughn, Sarah Palin | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Friday, 05 September 2008
 

Chains We Can Believe In
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

Okommissars dour crave total power,
An iron hand to rule this nation,
Not to debate but incarcerate
Those guilty of deviation.
You’ll have no role in thought control,
No matter whom you do know.
They’ll ship your butt to an icy hut,
In a camp far north of Juneau. 

We heard it well from stern Michelle,
What The Great One will require:
Without reserve we will all serve,
Or face the Okommissars’ ire.
You will submit, you’ll take the bit;
The Okommissariat guides your brains.
You’ll volunteer, by force or fear;
You will accept these chains.

We hear Dem czars, the Okommissars,
Are planning state prosecutions;
For all of those, they now oppose,
They’re preparing stern solutions.
Vice-Okommissar Joe has said it’s so
There‘ll be charges for those leavin’;
So those ending reigns will go in chains
Those are chains you can believe in.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on September 5, 2008 at 12:48 PM in Obamanation, Poetry, Politics, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Tuesday, 02 September 2008
 

She’s Running Against…
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

She’s running against old Scranton Joe,
Whose blue-collar pedigree we all know,
Because mainstream media says it’s true,
Though facts don’t quite support that view.
Joe says himself he’s middle class,
But the MSM considers that crass;
Middle Class? That’s so demeaning,
Got to be blue collar, leftist leaning.

She’s running against a rock-hard bias,
Of Mainstream Media, oh so pious,
Who ignored John Edwards secret screwing,
But pounce upon a teen’s wrongdoing.
A double standard? Oh you bet,
But folks you ain’t seen nothing yet;
These vultures we know will not pause,
To destroy this girl for their liberal cause.

She’s running against a dubious deal,
Dealt by our media so surreal,
The one’s should keep us all informed,
So twisted now, by hate malformed.
No longer do we get the news,
But extreme opinions, liberal views.
With hateful words, a teen they’ve trussed,
While Edward’s sins are undiscussed.

She’s running against the New York Times,
Godmother of journalistic crimes.
She’s conservative, so she doesn’t fit?
Be ready for their murderous hit.
If they don’t get her, she’s still toast,
For a backstab hit by the Washington Post;
And if they can’t kill her with their slimes,
There’s the West Coast hitters, the L.A. Times.

She’s running against some heavy odds, some think she’s not up to it,
I think she’s favored by the gods, and the libs are about to screw it.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on September 2, 2008 at 01:28 PM in Poetry, Politics, Russ Vaughn, Sarah Palin | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Wednesday, 20 August 2008
 

I was there
Contributed by Bill Faith

I was there
Bob Prinselaar

I look at my ribbons
Yep, I was there
No fancy awards
But, yep I was there

I just did my job
No hero for sure
I stood by my buddies
and learned to endure

I watched new guys come
I watched new guys go
They just weren't ready
They just didn't know

Each day was a milestone
I asked for one more
Or maybe a week
To add to my score

Now I'm a civilian
No troubles or care
But I look at my ribbons
Yep, I was there.

Contributed by Bill Faith on August 20, 2008 at 12:45 AM in Bob Prinselaar, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Thursday, 14 August 2008
 

First Secretary of Celebrity
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

Hey there’s little Georgie boy,
Barack’s new pretty campaign toy.
Sure they’re nuts, a little loony,
Gotta be to pick George Clooney,
As counselor of foreign affairs;
Forget this flick, folks, find the stairs.
Liaisons, sure he’s expert on;
Except for that what’s Georgie done?
To Libs a celebrity knows it all,
Can tell Obama the shots to call.
With all his Hollywood expertise,
George can seduce and stoop to please.
To George and Barry our world’s their toy,
Exists for naught but selfish joy.
So Georgie boy will surely be
First Secretary of Celebrity.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on August 14, 2008 at 12:12 AM in Obamanation, Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Saturday, 02 August 2008
 

I'm The One, I'm The One
Contributed by Bill Faith

With apologies to Johnny Rivers and a wag of the tail to this video.

Everybody talkin' 'bout the Kenyan's son
In the whole wide world there be only one

I'm The One, I'm The One
The One they call Obama, son

I can talk these words that will sound so sweet
They will even make your little heart skip a beat
Heal the sick, raise the dead
Make the little girls talk outta their heads

I'm The One, I'm The One
The One they call Obambi, son

I can tell your future, it will come to pass
I can do little things to make your heart feel glad
Look in the sky, predict the rain
Tell when a woman's got another man

I'm The One, I'm The One
The One they call Obambi, son
I'm The One, I'm The One
The One they call The Muslim's Son

Contributed by Bill Faith on August 2, 2008 at 06:21 PM in Music, Obamanation, Poetry, Politics | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Friday, 01 August 2008
 

Obamanomics: Lesson One, The Solution to Inflation
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

A well researched and thoughtful approach to solving the problem of high gas prices, postulated below by the future savior of mankind.

You think I don’t know about economics?
You fools thinkin’ all I read is comics?
You sayin’ I don’t know ‘bout inflation?
Hell, I know how to save this nation.
America don’t need to do no more drillin’;
You fools just need to do more fillin’.
Ya’ll quit believin’ these drill-now liars;
Git your ass out the car an’ check your tires.

Barry

My views on this issue will be presented in more detail following the inauguration. Any questions may be addressed to my newly appointed Extortionist General, Al Sharpton.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on August 1, 2008 at 02:49 PM in Obamanation, Poetry, Politics, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Wednesday, 30 July 2008
 

While in Landstuhl the Wounded Still Lay…
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

As a vet I know how these visits go;
They are contrived for the politicians,
Who posture, pose for network shows,
In controlled choreographed conditions.
Obama wants troops in his video loops,
To serve as his backdrop to glory;
But if the Army says no to a video show,
Then our wounded are no longer a story.

Once having been there I can certainly share
The excitement and anticipation;
Awaking to hear someone famous is near,
Come to pay the respects of the nation.
But then comes the word, infrequently heard,
The celebrity won’t visit today;
Too bad for the troops, he’s gone shooting hoops,
While in Landstuhl the wounded still lay.

Russ Vaughn
Vietnam 65-66

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on July 30, 2008 at 01:13 PM in Obamanation, Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Sunday, 27 July 2008
 

When Barry Comes Flyin’ Home Again…
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

Best appreciated when humming the tune of the popular Civil War song, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again,” or the Irish folk classic, “Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye.” Also, with sincere apologies to my Hibernian forbears whose folk lyrics and music I keep misusing for political purposes. Somehow, however, I think their Irish eyes are smiling.

When Barry was comin’ to see the troops, hooah, hooah;
The brass they made us jump through hoops, hooah, hooah.
With sand in our boots in sweat in the eye,
We stood in the sun ‘til we liked to die,
But it all was for naught, cause, “Barry we never saw ye.”

He met all the generals sure as life, hooah, hooah;
He picked their brains about the strife, hooah, hooah.
But a private soldier he never met,
He's comin' home an' he still ain’t yet,
But all we can say is, “Barry we never saw ye.”

Our wounded off to Landstuhl go, hooah, hooah;
To stabilize there for America, Ho! hooah, hooah.
But Barry there ignored our troops,
To go to the gym and shoot some hoops,
So all our wounded can say is, “Barry we never saw ye.”

So this whole damned trip was just a show, hooah, hooah,
Using us troops to make it so, hooah, hooah,
He wants to be our commander in chief
But has of our mission no true belief,
So all we can say is, “Barry the devil with ye.”

When Barry comes flyin’ home agin’ hooah, hooah
We’ll remember how Barry used us then, hooah, hooah
And vote for the warrior who bore the pain,
Who earned our respect that’s John McCain,
And we’ll all be verily sayin’ “Barry we never saw ye.”

Russ Vaughn
Vietnam 65-66

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on July 27, 2008 at 10:38 PM in Music, Obamanation, Poetry, Politics, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Saturday, 26 July 2008
 

Mine Eyes Have Seen…
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

With apologies to Julia Ward Howe and her revered Battle Hymn of the Republic

Mine eyes have seen the stories from Obama’s media horde;
They are trampling out what sanity their liberal brains once stored.
How he’s using them is frightening, he’s become their liberal lord,
But the dupes keep marching on.
You’ll be sorry how he’s used ya; you’ll be sorry how he’s used ya,
You’ll be so sorry when he screws ya, but you dupes keep marching on.

Mine eyes have seen the talking heads as they kneel to lick his shoes;
They regurgitate his talking points and tell us that it’s news.
We’ll all be struck by lightening ‘fore we hear opposing views,
But those dupes keep marching on.
You’ll be sorry how he’s used ya; you’ll be sorry how he’s used ya,
You’ll be so sorry when he screws ya, but you dupes keep marching on.

Mine eyes have seen Chris Mathews as he rubs his leg and grins,
And drools just like a panting pup a’humping Obama’s shins,
And like all puppies everywhere forgives all Master’s sins;
That stupe keeps marching on.
You’ll be sorry how he’s used ya; you’ll be sorry how he’s used ya,
Chris you’ll be sorry when he screws ya, but you dupes keep marching on.

Mine eyes have seen the New York Times as it descends to naught;
The liberal pup who inherited it all has driven it to aught.
This murderer of the Old Gray Dame’s a spoiled and stupid snot;
But this dupe keeps marching on.
You’ll be sorry how he’s used ya; you’ll be sorry how he’s used ya,
You’ll be so sorry when he screws ya, but you dupes keep marching on.

Mine eyes have seen these cattle as they kneel and meekly moo;
They’re hooves are trampling out our votes uncaring what they do.
Where once there was some honesty there’s now no news that’s true;
But these dupes keep marching on.
You’ll be sorry how he’s used ya; you’ll be sorry how he’s used ya,
You’ll be so sorry when he screws ya, but you dupes keep marching on.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on July 26, 2008 at 12:17 AM in Obamanation, Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Sunday, 13 July 2008
 

Tony, We’re Proud We Knew Ye
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

You’re on the road to eternity, huroo, huroo,
Your spirit’s flown your soul is free, huroo, huroo,
With wringin’ hands and tearful eyes,
We pray you hear our mournful cries,
And we all feel so sad today,
But, Tony, we’re proud we knew Ye.

Where is that voice so smilin’ mild, huroo, huroo,
That drove the White House press so wild, huroo, huroo,
Where are those eyes that sparklin’ smiled
With which our hearts Ye so beguiled,
Oh darlin’ boy you made our day,
Ah, Tony, we’re glad we knew Ye.

We’ll miss that spirit that loved the run, huroo, huroo,
That flashin’ smile for everyone, huroo, huroo,
That mike Ye wielded like a gun,
But never wounding anyone,
Oh your sparklin’ spirits flown away,
Sweet Tony we’re goin’ to miss Ye.

We’re sad young lad to see Ye gone, huroo, huroo,
But glad your sad ordeal is done, huroo, huroo,
With sorrowed hearts we accept you’re gone,
But know your goodness still lives on,
Oh, Tony Snow, we must let go,
But, Lord, we were blessed we knew Ye.

Author’s note:

I am so saddened that we have lost this bright spirit, this so very talented young man. I do not know if Tony Snow is of Irish extraction, but his origins are in Kentucky which was mainly settled by the Scots-Irish, of which I am one with my American roots in that region as well. For that reason, I chose to make my tribute to Tony a derivation of the old Irish song, “Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye.”

The music for the American version of this ballad, When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, can be found here:

http://kids.niehs.nih.gov/lyrics/johnny.htm

Listening to it as you read my words may help you better appreciate this tribute. It is a simple tune and these are but simple words, so it is easy to sing them. I think Tony would like that, hearing all us singing him off on his eternal journey.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on July 13, 2008 at 01:20 PM in Music, Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Sunday, 16 March 2008
 

An Obamanation
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

It’s unfair the Obamatons howl,
To charge guilt by association;
Our boy has committed no foul;
He’s just one of the congregation.
While sitting there twenty long years,
As the reverend spewed out his odium,
Naught wafted into those large ears,
But spittle and froth from the podium?

No such tirades did I ever see,
Says Obama now that it’s news;
No rants about AIDS heard by me,
Nor venomous bile aimed at Jews.
You cherry pick dribbles and bites
From sermons of many long years;
You say my preacher hates whites?
My goodness that’s news to my ears!

But a man picks a church like a wife,
As a comfortable mate for his soul,
With commonly shared views of life;
They are parts of the man as a whole.
So Obama is welcome to try
To convince us that his soul is pure,
But it’s just a political lie;
He buys into his preacher’s manure.

Why else then sit in that church pew,
With children and wife at your side?
If you truly do not share the world view,
Of your hate-spewing spiritual guide?
Yet now you denounce Jeremiah,
In your quest for power and station;
He’s a conveniently banished pariah;
Barack, you’re an Obamanation.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on March 16, 2008 at 07:43 PM in Obamanation, Poetry, Politics, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Saturday, 19 January 2008
 

Electile Dysfunction
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

It’s abundantly clear and I charge without fear
Nor the slightest degree of compunction,
Proven night after night both on left and on right,
Our media have electile dysfunction.

While hoping to score they’ve become such a bore
With their overdone, nonstop production.
So we’re starting to balk at their unending talk;
We’re weary of endless seduction.

The hooray and hearsay, the pestering foreplay
Their tempting has lost its direction;
It will be with some glee when we actually see
The media finally get an election.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on January 19, 2008 at 01:35 PM in Poetry, Politics, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Sunday, 18 November 2007
 

The Soldier's Grave
Contributed by Bill Faith

Thank you Marsha Burks Megehee for passing this on:

THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE

Tread lightly, ‘tis a soldiers grave,
A lonely mossy mount,
And yet to hearts like mine and thine
It should be holy ground.

Speak softly, let no careless laugh,
No idle, thoughtless jest,
Escape your lips where sweetly sleeps
The hero in his rest.

For him no reveille will beat
When morning beams shall come;
For him, at night, no tattoo rolls
Its thunder from the drum.

No costly marble marks the place,
Recording deeds of fame;
But rudely on that bending tree,
Is carved the soldier’s name.

A name, not dear to us, but, oh!
There may be lips that breathe
That name as sacredly and low,
As vesper prayers at eve.

There may be brows that wear for him
The morning cypress vine,
And hearts that make this lonely grave
A holy pilgrim shrine.

There may be eyes that joyed to gaze
With love into his own;
Now keeping midnight vigils long
With silent grief, alone.

There may be hands now clasped in prayer,
This soldier’s hand had pressed,
And cheeks washed pale by sorrow’s tears,
His own cold cheek caressed.

Tread lightly! For a man bequeathed,
Ere laid beneath this sod,
His ashes to his native land
His gallant soul to God.

Written by Eliza Jane Nicholson
(1843-1896)
(The Poet Pearl Rivers)
New Orleans & Picayune MS

Learn more about the author here.

Contributed by Bill Faith on November 18, 2007 at 01:29 PM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Monday, 12 November 2007
 

Marsha Burks Megehee: China Made
Contributed by Bill Faith

China Made
Marsha Burks Megehee, C. 2007

Let's hear it for World Trade!
I hope it's "China made."
Trade with them often,
Put nails in our coffins
Where we'll soon be laid!

Let's order more China toys
For Santa's good girls and boys!
And hope when they box 'em
They have enough toxins
To stifle loud Christmas Joys!

Tell Rover, who's  now in his plot,
From dining on dog food you got,
To blame the Red Chef
Who had anti-freeze left,
Dog friendly China?  In a pot?

Buy China, because it is cheaper!
Trade partner's with  the grim reaper,
While threatening with nukes
They make our dogs puke,
This line is ........ a bleeper! *&%*#

The next baby bed you select
Must have some Red China defect,
For choking the kiddos,
Help you get rid'o
A future teen's lack of respect.

If you hate my Red China Epistle,
Don't fear the  air raid whistles,
Just buy Chinese
Goods, If you please
Chinese made? Why waste a missile?

Thanks, Marsha.

Contributed by Bill Faith on November 12, 2007 at 12:10 PM in Marsha Burks Megehee, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Sunday, 11 November 2007
 

Michael Marks: The Things I Carry
Contributed by Bill Faith

One of my favorite poets emails:

Bill,

With Veteran's Day just ahead I sat down to write a slightly different type of poem that was inspired after meeting a retired serviceman who had served for over 20 years and grappled, in very stoic reserve, with lingering PTSD issues. It is not the usual "stuff of poems" but a rather vivid scene came to mind and I wrote "The Things I Carry" -- since you have been so kindly interested in some of my earlier poems, I thought you might like to read it.  As always, they are written with the deepest respect and thanks for those who defend freedom.

The Things I Carry

The old train lumbered up the track amid a hoofbeat clatter,
its cloudy windows streaked by rain that fell in gentle patter.
With duffle heavy on my back I trudged along the aisle
Until I saw an empty seat next to a welcome smile.

A stifled groan curled in my chest beneath the weight I bore;
I shrugged the duffle off my back, it thudded on the floor.
“That pack looks awfully heavy friend” he said with narrowed stare,
“You got a load of cinderblocks or something tucked in there?”

My gaze fell to the weathered bag, its corners taped and patched,
the olive drab a faded grey, one canvas strap mismatched.
I forced a smile that in my heart was anything but merry
and through my gritted teeth replied “Its just the things I carry.”

Perhaps it was the lonely night, the thunder and the rain,
a sense of kindred friendship that I couldn’t quite explain,
but with a snap of rusted clip the duffle opened wide
and reaching in I showed him all the things I had inside.

A heavy armored vest was first, its kevlar torn and frayed
the gaping hole stained dark with blood was caused by a grenade.
“My best friend’s life” I whispered, fearing that my voice would crack;
“He gave it up to save me in the desert of Iraq.”

“We grew up just like brothers ever since the age of nine,
fishing up on Grady’s Pond or flyin kites on twine,
our first car was a Mustang, man we made that baby slide.
He always calls me ‘slick,’ I mean... he did until he died.”

A brick of granite followed, dark and grey as stormy sky,
engraved upon its polished face, a date in mid-July.
“I wasn’t home the day I lost my dad,” I muttered low,
remembering that awful day so many years ago.

“Our unit drew a line that month in deep Afghanistan
protecting little schoolgirls from a bloody Taliban.”
My somber gaze fell to the floor and fixed on muddy shoes.
“Dad was gone two weeks before I even got the news.”

The silence hung a moment broken only by the rain,
the beating of my heart over the rumble of the train,
before I heard him ask about the thing I left inside,
a mason jar that wads of dirty laundry failed to hide.

“Don’t open that,” I said too fast, my voice now tinged with fear.
“There’s things in there that, trust me, you don’t ever wanna hear.”
I thought about the demons bottled up inside that jar;
some things are better left alone... left just the way they are.

“I’ve seen a lot of people die, and let me tell you friend,
the sounds, the smells...” I bowed my head, “sometimes they never end.”
I don’t know why the lid slips off, it mostly does at night;
and it can take me hours just to get it back on tight.”

The man then spoke in earnest tones that tugged my memory,
“It seems a lot of weight to haul, but why I cannot see.
What makes a fellah like yourself lug such a load of pain?”
A furrow crossed my tired brow, I struggled to explain.

I spoke to him of duty, of the things a man just did,
of old regrets that in the darkness of the heart lay hid;
the ghosts of fallen friends you just can’t bring yourself to bury,
the bridges crossed and moments lost are just the things I carry.

Instead of being saddened now he seemed a bit amused,
“I admire your resolve bub, but you’ve got it all confused;
The memories you’re s’posed to keep aren’t those that weigh a ton,”
and handing me three items said “I’ll trade you one for one.”

The photo showed two lanky guys in t-shirts and blue jeans,
both leaning on a Mustang like a pair of Steve McQueens.
The memories came flooding back of racing ‘round our home
in an overpowered yellow wedge of spoilers and chrome.

The letter was a short one folded carefully in thirds,
my dad had never been a man of very many words;
In careful print it said his greatest pride since life began
was watching me grow up to be a soldier and a man.

Through misty eyes I looked the last upon the ocean shell,
if it had a hidden meaning I’d be damned if I could tell.
“You know the trick,” he softly said, “just hold it to your ear,
and listen to the things in life you’ve earned the right to hear.”

I heard the sounds of my home town where screams were shouts of cheer,
as kids ran up and down the field without the need to fear;
the ring of freedom’s many voices blended in the air,
the sound of open singing and the sound of open prayer.

I turned to find an empty seat,  just air and little more
than dust that slowly settled down upon the wooden floor.
Yet on that evanescence hung a voice I knew at last
a whisper from my memory, an echo from my past:

“Remember slick, the way to honor  those of us now gone;
is searching for the best ahead in each and every dawn.
Hold on to the good times, not the moments dark and scary,
I’m telling you to let ‘em go...  they aren’t yours to carry.”


Michael Marks   ©2007

Awesome, Michael. Thank you as always.

Enjoy more of Michael's writing at IWVPA.

Contributed by Bill Faith on November 11, 2007 at 12:20 AM in Michael Marks, Poetry, The American Warrior | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Thursday, 08 November 2007
 

Re-sinking John Kerry
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

I’ve been too busy to write anything lately but when I saw this, Kerry says he’ll be ready next time, the old animus came bubbling up once again.

Re-sinking John Kerry

From Davy Jones’ locker a zombie emerges,
A Purple Heart phony with political urges;
Assuring the press he regrets his Swift boating,
John Kerry believes his boat is still floating.
He readily admits that he got torpedoed,
But he’s up on his sail board, defiant and Speedo’d.
The arrogant fool believes his wife’s riches
Is enough to trump all of us Swift sons-of-bitches.

But John is a zombie, a dead sailor walking,
His brain is long dead but his mouth is still talking.
He needs a torpedo through his political heart,
Reducing his speeches to a bubbling fart.
Though Kerry pretends that his life isn’t haunted
By Vietnam vets he slandered and taunted,
The younger among them will bury this knave,
And stand waiting in line to piss on his grave.

If I were John Kerry I’d consider cremation,
Lest I lie in the soggiest grave in the nation.

Russ Vaughn
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on November 8, 2007 at 10:21 AM in Jean Fraud Kerry, Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Monday, 10 September 2007
 

Of Eagles and Chickens
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

We Americans are a mix of birds,
Some soarers, others grounders;
And from their strong, enduring words,
More Eagles were among our Founders.
But different birds this domain share,
Some soaring, some just clucking;
While Eagles soar, patrol the air;
Penned Chickens wait for plucking.

Eagles have sharp, raptor eyes,
Not so in birds fear stricken;
An Eagle fights to own his skies,
Not so the hen-housed Chicken.
Feckless fowl, they placidly peck,
Flocking to their foolish fate,
Flashing blade on feathered neck,
Must they always learn too late?

That’s why we use the very word
To taunt those who won’t fight;
A Chicken is some fear-filled bird,
Whose fear provokes his plight.
Frightened fowl will surrender all,
Hoping for a peaceful ending,
Unmindful that their heads may fall,
Blind to bright blades descending.

But Eagles being bolder birds,
Seek our enemies in their lair,
Screaming Eagles, forgoing words,
Strike with deadly talons there.
Proud raptors who together fight
Know something Chickens never will,
Love of country and birthright,
A rara avis grounder skill.

The anti-war capons of Answer
And hysterical hens of Code Pink,
Let bird flu turn into fowl cancer,
And their pen is beginning to stink.
As they flock to the Mall in September
To disgrace and dishonor their nation
It would behoove them to remember
Watchful Eagles are on station.

Russ Vaughn
101st Airborne (Screaming Eagles)
Vietnam 65-66

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on September 10, 2007 at 01:24 AM in Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Wednesday, 05 September 2007
 

Shoo, Hsu, Baby
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

With apologies to the Andrews Sisters, Phil Moore and Universal Pictures (unless they’re all Democrats)

Shoo, Hsu, shoo, Baby,
Shoo, Hsu, shoo, Baby,
Bye, bye, bye, Baby,
Do-dah do-day,
Big Dollar Daddy from across the seas.

You've seen him in Shanghai and Beijing too,
And now he's wearin' the Demos’ blue,
Hil had a tear in the corner of her eye,
As he said his last goodbye.

Shoo, Hsu, shoo, Baby,
Shoo, Hsu, shoo, Baby,
Bye, bye, bye, Baby,
Do-dah do-day,
Big Dollar Daddy now coppin’ pleas.

Now don't you get silly,
Don't you sigh, Willy,
Bye, bye, bye, Hilly,
Do-dah do-day,
When you’re elected we’ll do as we please.

Seems kinda tough now,
To say goodbye this way,
But Daddy’s life’s rough now,
So that he can be sweet to you another day.

Shoo, Hsu, shoo, Baby,
Shoo, Hsu, shoo, Baby,
Bye, bye, bye, Baby,
Do-dah do-day,

Dollar Daddy’s in the ol’ deep freeze.
Shoo, Hsu, shoo, Baby,
Shoo, Hsu, shoo, Baby,
Goodbye, goodbye,
Dollar Daddy’s off across the seas,
To his big Commy Mommy, the Red Chinese.

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on September 5, 2007 at 10:41 AM in Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Monday, 27 August 2007
 

Tears Of Ink
Contributed by Bill Faith

Email from frequent Old War Dogs contributor Roberto Prinselaar (USN 1948-1957, USCG 1967-1989). I added the Amazon link.:

xxxx
xxx		xxx
xxxx

Bill,

My new book “Tears Of Ink” has been published, and is available at www.amazon.com. The book is a compilation of all of my military poems plus some writings. One of the counselors at the Vet Center in Las Vegas urged me to publish, and my wife assisted in getting everything ready for the publisher. I can’t take any of the profits from the sale of the book because I firmly believe that my being able to write what I did was a gift from God, so I’m donating all of the profits to our local chapter #961 of the Viet Nam Veterans of America. They just got started and need help.

Bob Prinselaar

Seriously, folks, this is one you really need a copy of. Check out Bob's Old War Dogs contributions here and his IWVPA page here.

Tears of Ink
Bob Prinselaar

My tears of ink flow down my pen
A torrent of what’s inside of me
My feelings in a tale
The words all come from deep within
Old memories just come tumbling out
As I pull aside the veil
Some memories darker than the ink
And I fight to keep them down
My hand grips hard the pen
Why am I cursed with all my thoughts
Of things that happened long ago
And of men I knew back then
So now I write to ease the pain
And I cry inside to form the ink
And let it flow to write
But ink will never be the same
And I will never find my peace
Till real tears blur my sight

Contributed by Bill Faith on August 27, 2007 at 06:01 PM in Bob Prinselaar, Books, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Sunday, 19 August 2007
 

Fightin' Words
Contributed by Bill Faith

Email from Russ Vaughn:

After reading that column and forwarding it to you [click here -- BF], I got to thinking about why it is that we have such foolish rules of engagement and came to the conclusion that it is essentially the leftwing media that have created this War through the Looking Glass situation.

I went back and looked up my poem "Fightin' Words," which I wrote in response to the media firestorm against a young Marine who made the right call in a tough situation. Too bad our SEAL's didn't do so as well.

I think the poem is still timely.

Regards,

Russ

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.

Contributed by Bill Faith on August 19, 2007 at 12:08 AM in Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Monday, 06 August 2007
 

Poisoned Penns
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

It runs like a flood beneath their skins,
In the veins of these left-leaning actors;
From Leo to Sean it seems that all Penns
Can’t help but be shrill malefactors.
Leo loved Stalin’s world socialist dreams;
Sean too has this love for dictators,
Blind to their cruelty, inhumane schemes,
A trait not uncommon in traitors.

All the world’s a stage for Leo’s boy;
Sean misses no chance to play lead.
He’ll play a tyrant’s tomfool toy,
Like his new Venezuelan misdeed.
Actors like Sean, lightweights like him,
Are to tyrants like Chavez but fools;
Fools for the moment, fools on a whim,
History proves them nothing but tools.

Leo the Lefty had a socialist son,
In Hollywood that’s a surprise?
Pushing their dogma as innocent fun,
Filling viewers’ minds with their lies?
Taking advantage of entertainment skills,
To romanticize their social design,
A hammer and sickle up on Hollywood’s hills?
The Poison Penns would call that a sign.

Russ Vaughn

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on August 6, 2007 at 01:18 AM in Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Tuesday, 31 July 2007
 

An Enormous Crime; The Gospel of POW Hell
Contributed by Bill Faith

The latest from poet and POW/MIA activist Marsha Burks Megehee:

"An Enormous Crime"
(THE GOSPEL OF POW HELL)

"An Enormous Crime"...truth at last!
Time's long, dark shadows flee.
The gospel of lost, abandoned men,
Denied their liberty!

Freedom's hope...stolen lives,
Lie-masters...blacked out names;
Deceit at the highest level.
"The Emperor's New Clothes," of shame!

Paper deaths...prisoners' cries,
"Taps".....falsley played.
"An Enormous Crime" sheds light upon
Sweet liberty's soul, betrayed!

Buried truth, devils deals,
False coffins....empty laid.
"There are no POWs!" Why?
Their ransom was not paid!

War with time.... shadow men,
Guardians of cruel lies.
"Search....but do not find them!
Until the last one dies"

Cover up, stonewall, deny.
The families must not know!
Re-classify the paper trail,
From Nixon....to Le Duc Tho!

It's for the country....foreign trade,
The house of cards must stand.
"There are no POWs!"
Debunk live sightings and Rand.

Build a blind....in cyber space,
"Truth's digital morgue."
Call activists "Don Quioxties"
Name it "POW Facts. org!"

Tie the truth in 'Gordian knots"
Hunt survivors....... in pantomime!
"There are no POWs!
It will be true.........with time!" 

Thank you! Billy Hendon and Beth Stewart,
for the truth..... and the courage to expose
"An Enormous Crime."

Marsha Burks Megehee

God Bless Our POWs!
2008!......Before it's too late!

Inspired by the book An Enormous Crime: The Definitive Account of American POWs Abandoned in Southeast Asia. While you're at Amazon buying that you'll also want a copy of Is Anybody Listening?: A True Story About POW/MIAs In The Vietnam War.

I should have my ass kicked for not having it finished by now but please check out the site I'm building for Marsha here anyway. 

Contributed by Bill Faith on July 31, 2007 at 03:02 PM in Books, Marsha Burks Megehee, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Sunday, 29 July 2007
 

Schlock Troops
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

The liberals say they support our troops,
Which they’ve a funny way of showing;
Like publishing false atrocity scoops
Bout which they’ve no way of knowing.
They’ll gleefully publish unverified crap
From the dark mind of a wannabe writer,
Hoping they’ve set another antiwar trap
With crimes claimed by a liberal fighter.

The troops that liberals truly admire,
Aren’t the brave who fight uncomplaining,
But deserters who flee, avoiding the fire,
And the misfits can’t handle the training.
But liberals save their true veneration,
Like front page at the New York Times,
For soldiers willing to attack their own nation,
Trumpeting charges of brutal war crimes.

This pattern was set during my own war
By a traitorous, vainglorious politician,
A treasonous, poisonous, political whore,
Feeding future presidential ambition.
Liberals back then sucked up his schlock,
Proving to the world that they’re dupes,
Establishing a pattern now become stock,
For these America-hating Schlock troops.

Russ Vaughn
101^st Airborne
Vietnam 65-66

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on July 29, 2007 at 12:36 AM in Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Tuesday, 17 July 2007
 

The Involunteers
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

One thing to me rings loud and clear
Through mainstream media sources:
Libs don’t understand, Volunteer,
When it comes to our fighting forces.
Their memories hark to former days,
Dubious deferments due to classes,
Craven cowering in cynical ways,
Just to cover their cowardly asses.

Pony-tailed pundits of treason foregoing,
Now scoff and condemn with derision,
Volunteer warriors, warned and knowing,
Who’ve made a fateful decision,
Foregoing the comforts liberals love,
That very succor to preserve,
A concept Libs are ignorant of:
To reap benefits, one should serve.

Ever fearful, Libs cower in classrooms,
Proclaiming the due of the masses;
On graves of the brave, toxic mushrooms,
Still cravenly covering their asses.
Preaching, protesting, showing their ire,
Cat-box covering all their worst fears,
Cowardly curs afraid of war’s fire,
They’re our nation’s Involunteers.

I know a truth from mankind’s past,
A truth that sure prevails;
Those who fight are those will last,
Throughout all man’s travails.
But those making phony excuses,
As false and fearful disguise,
Will feel history’s worst abuses,
Enslaved by their cowardly lies.

The author served six years in the United States Army as a volunteer at a time when so many were being unwillingly conscripted into the Vietnam conflict. Many of them, untold thousands of them served bravely, but this old paratrooper noncom will tell you this straight certain: in all-hell’s-breaking-loose combat, I preferred volunteers every time. When it was all hitting the fan, I had an inherent inability to place my full trust, and perhaps my life, in the hands of citizens who had been compelled by force of law to be serving beside me. I am now frequently on military installations all over the country and will bet any “Old Army” types that our current volunteer forces are vastly superior in training, intelligence, spirit and physical fitness to any forces America has ever fielded. They are Volunteers.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327^th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101^st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on July 17, 2007 at 12:47 AM in Poetry, Russ Vaughn, The American Warrior | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Thursday, 05 July 2007
 

Speedy Al
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

A thing we all contend with
As a decidedly un-green nation,
Is Al Gore’s global warming myth
And his gaseous pontification.
But little Al’s a different breed,
Not so pure nor quite so pious,
Showed us how Greens still love speed,
By doing a hundred in a Prius.

Russ Vaughn

***

Webmaster's supplement:

Al Gore Defends Arrested Son’s Carbon Offset Strategy
Scott Ott

(2007-07-05) — Al Gore, the concert organizer and former U.S. vice president, today defended his son, Al III, after the younger Gore’s arrest for speeding and drug possession, applauding his use of the hybrid Toyota Prius to offset the carbon emissions of his smoking marijuana. ...

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on July 5, 2007 at 12:47 PM in Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Saturday, 23 June 2007
 

Bastante es bastante.
Contributed by Bill Faith

I've linked to this in the past but I'm pretty sure this is the first time it's appeared on this site.

Bastante!
Russ Vaughn

[Spanish to English, bastante adj.: 1. enough  adj.]

We’re with you, George, through thick and thin
We support you still in the mess you’re in,
But enough’s enough and as they say
Bastante! down old Mexico way.
We’re sick of our laws being totally ignored
As our torero, George, you’re getting gored,
Sly foxes laired south of our border
Have reversed the natural feeding order.

This lawlessness on the Rio Grande,
Now threatens us throughout our land,
[Read on.]

Contributed by Bill Faith on June 23, 2007 at 04:34 PM in Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Wednesday, 30 May 2007
 

Get Along Home, Cindy, Cindy
Contributed by Russ Vaughn

With a tip of the hat to the memory of the Man in Black, Mr. Johnny Cash

      
That shrill and sour apple has fallen from her tree, Cindy Sheehan’s time has passed, the Lefties set her free.

      
Get along, home, Cindy, Cindy, get along home. Get along home, Cindy Sheehan, they wish you’d go away.

Once Cindy was their honey-nut, she was their Golden Star, but when she cracked their Left wing-nuts, this nut had gone too far.

   
Get along, home, Cindy, Cindy, get along home. Get along home, Cindy Sheehan, they want you far away.

When Cindy led the evening news, they let her bleat and blow, but when she dissed their Liberal views, was time for her to go.

         
Get along, home, Cindy, Cindy, get along home. Get along home, Cindy Sheehan, you’re just so yesterday.

When Cindy got religion, the Left built her a church, but when she turned her other cheek they left her in a lurch.

   
Get along, home, Cindy, Cindy, get along home. Get along home, Cindy Sheehan, please go home and stay.

She did Crawford in the summer time, Caracas in the fall, but now she’s not the gal they want so her big world’s getting small.

         
Get along, home, Cindy, Cindy, get along home. Get along home, Cindy Sheehan, you blew your chance to play.

Cindy’s now just history, she hangs her head and cries, the Moonbats hung her out to dry, one bat they now despise.

    
Get along, home, Cindy, Cindy, get along home. Get along home, Cindy Sheehan, they buried you today.

Russ Vaughn

Contributed by Russ Vaughn on May 30, 2007 at 10:24 AM in Poetry, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack