2007 Bozo Songs From The Forthcoming Release:
"Give Me Liberty To Fleece"

The 2006 Score: A Bozo Eve Song

"I'm making progress!", our President said.
"Okay, while I'm thinking, many more will be dead,
But I'm working on strategy with the very best heads
So's to stay the course, win not lose not, to bed!"

When Jerry Ford gave Dick Nixon a pass
There were more than a few who said it was crass
But we must now behave, in a man's world a lass
Gets a tune from James Brown and a beating first class!

It's the way that we pander to the long gone and wrong
We'd rather meander than roll back the strong
So as New Year approaches, gainsay not loud the gong:
"No more fifth-rate cockroaches, make peace our new song!"

The Lines Of Starting Over: A Bozo New Year Song

Saddam, they hanged him high!
Mahdi, madly, based on lies,
The Sunnis are now well aroused and
GI deaths? Oh hell, 3 thousand.

Iraqis who are refugees
Cannot come to the States, you see
The well found fear of persecution
Brings only Dems with resolution.

They say that ethics is a brand
And Murtha's lost his sleight of hand
But what we need is now to bury
The neocons, their sound and fury.

A plane now off the radar screen
With Cheyney, greed, what does it mean?
The resort to more cash and fear
The new approach will die this year.

Back In Power Glower: A Bozo Starting Over Song

At last there is a woman Speaker!
While Harriet Myers slinks away
Let's put on vinyl from New Seekers
But Georgy Girl will never play...

The surge, the bump, the escalation
These dances of death wear thin
The neocon's last masturbation
The signing statement, the grin.

At last the chance to make 'em pay
But fear of losing will still sway
As partisans crusade, the trouble
Remains beyond the Beltway bubble.

The Squirm Of Sturm: A Bozo Postwar Song

The generals who go to war
Get just as far as they did before
The troops they ask and don't ask for
Are just as dead as ever more.

The bump on a log called escalation
In destiny of occupied nations
Is not to fight for what is right
Only how to end this our night.

Surging, purging, new strat of leaders
And teenage models lacking creed or
Armories shrunken, tax cut needers
Away they'll go, Tigris receders.

Babe says, "Second terms just go by
Mostly with scams on rye
The slam dunk of cowards
Ending in tears and Moe Howard". 

A Week In Politics: A Bozo Lifeline Song

Here the surging armies gather!
Bush's boys and girls will see
Benefits of new strategy
Maliki's boys may show up
An Amsterdam miracle
Watching as these hosts throw up
The same old dead palaver
Pelosi, she's more spherical.

Speech, Reach, Screech: A Bozo Tactical Song

Terror war still going badly,
More troops resurrect strategy
President flails about madly
There's nothing for you and from me.

We spent our time celebrating
As house prices rose ever more
But now we're just masturbating
Pretending we don't know the score.

The rich trousered filthy lucre
The poor drowned, but we weren't enraged
Our new pols offer us succor,
Falderols, and minimum wage.

A Medal of Honor winner
His family gets to be used
By one last cowardly spinner
Of notions still not disabused.

The idea of righteous torture
It seemed like a noble revenge
Alas, we are hated, impure
Stuck with our druids at Stonehenge.

The Execution Of Strategy: A Bozo 8x9x8 Song

And his head snapped off like a twig
Soon one day we'll all make it big
But for now we're just stuck in a jam
Base Decider's ploy, bastin' ham.

Thousands more are dead, but the spies
Cannot say Iran is, tho' they try
So the tours go on without pause
With goodbyes too to the rule of law.

In our classrooms no child left behind
In Iraq, kids are maimed and left blind
So as learned adults do we mean
Not to mention the war mise-en-scene?

The Shiites make light of the Sunnis
Such fights! In DC all are loonies
To remember what worth we adore
Comes with cash, dead neck up, like before.

Hellzapoppin' Gonzales: A Bozo Pastiche Song (with apologies to George and Ira Gershwin)

FISA, FISA, we'll obey!
When the subpoenas fly
All the terror polls astray.

FISA, FISA, come what may
One last big surge we'll try
Til the body bags do sway.

See the Great Decider, now he frowns
It was not his fate to wear a crown, so...

FISA, FISA, name the day
Then Bush at last bye bye!
And the clouds will roll away.

Ham On Rye: A Bozo Aging Song

Mamas Papas done.
My heart sings bereft
Denny now is gone
The pretty one's left.

What's before a song?
Chance to get along
A trance of dreamin'
Once more war schemin'.

The State Of The Union: A Bozo Irrelevance Song

Hillary is in it to win it
Barack, will he live to be in it?
A woman, a black man, can they draw votes?
Majority, minority moves on from rote...

This President is once again in a bubble
He clings to the tax cuts, Iraq is no trouble
Who might be insured? Not GIs wounded double
Their fodder seems odder than Nixon's old stubble.

Babe and I in Shanghai, where the best dollar trade
Is hedged by the euro, and the space race waylaid,
The new Bund is pronounced by the Treasury fade
Or what passes for power in a pro-life parade.

Babe thinks Peyton is at last a Volunteer hero
But I shrink, these games are nothing but zero
In New Orleans they're waiting for one rebuilt bed
Oh, that's yesterday's news, lame duck promises dead.

So when losing, angrier we are than of yore
Cause the danger unmet still lurks as before
The challenge is trying hard to make our behalf
On something less Bush, or to try hard to laugh.

The Opening Gambit Of Scooter: A Bozo Lambing Song

"I need myself an advocate
To tell the jury: do not hate!
So busy was I spreading smears
I plum forgot the walls had ears
And thus a Plameout was my fate."

Sacrificed was dear old Scooter!
To in effect preserve one Rove
A fist, a punching hand in glove
Of voters looking up above:
Dems please summon Roto Rooter!

The lies and balances in check
The prisons were kept on the sly
The wars all launched without a spy
Our country took it in the neck
A Brownie's job sums up this dreck.

Cheap Laugh In Najaf: A Bozo Counterinsurgency Song

The surge at last is working strong!
Well not arrived, but now what's wrong?
Iraqis send in chopper flights
To be shot down among Shiites.

We killed a defeated Mahdi
One neocon of small army
I guess that's what is meant by war
The manual's rewritten more.

East MaryLynne: A Bozo Theatrical Song

There are no second guesses
With enormous successes
And nothing but terms: left to grow?
But the bombs are the stresses
So we clean up the messes
Of insurgents: in the last throes.

When the GIs lack armor
Resolutions will harm core
al-Qaeda they're spared: the show?
Scooter's lies are a balm for
One done party rule calm, or
The terror of truth: when we know.

There's a babe not for turning
And a lifestyle not churning
The partnership news: she don't crow!
"Sure, Pop flogged me by gurning
Like a flag not for burning
My spin is the same: cheap and low."

You Get One Call: A Bozo Trail Song

Down here in New Mexico   
Our ethics present quite a show:
"The prosecutor wouldn't see
My name is Pete Domenici
And so I thought he'd better go".

Then came a call from Lady Heather
And she was angry altogether:
"The prosecutor needs to charge
All Democrats are still at large
Or face Rove's hell for leather".

What do we mean by partisan?
An anti-terror paragon?
"So give me please another term
Or else the Bill of Rights will squirm
In far less time than Qaeda man".

No Longer Scooter's Turn To Lie: A Bozo Pastiche Song


Oh, when Scooter outed Val for his party
He slimed, but he never would sing
Pat sat down and said, "You want out?
Tell Cheyney he don't mean a thing!"


Well it hurt Dick so to see them dance together
He felt like making a scene
His lawyer's tears fell but said, "Don't screw up!"
Cause Scooter's smile was so mean.

(Instrumental break: 4 of 5 counts)

Oh, one night I saw them dissin' Grand Old Party
So I dissed Decider guy
Scooter jumped up and he hit him
'Cause he still loved Dick, that's why.



No longer Scooter's turn to lie
Scooter's turn to lie
Scooter's turn to lie:
"Dick Cheyney's forgotten me!"

Atop The Barmy Army: A Bozo General Song

Back in the days ere Peter Pace
The Army thought a mix of race
Was really quite immoral
But we've moved on, from straight to hell
When losing wars, don't ask, don't tell
To excuse seems quite floral
One soldier killing in our place.

The Bad Guy Squeaks Again: A Bozo Release Song

Did I plan 9/11?
Yep, put that one down
To me, not in heaven
A waterboard clown
But I swear and I swear
That I killed Daniel Pearl
And I 'spose you should care
How I gave swords a whirl...

All released at my trial farrago!
Commissions don't cease Guantanamo
And I 'spose that Gonzales still doesn't know
Why the US Attorneys I knocked off now show...

Sheikh Khalid, that's me!
I'm a distractin' fan
Who you always should see
Not Osama, my man
When subpoenas with glee
Bring out real treasure trove
Then I better not plan
To call up one Karl Rove!!

The Landscape Of Kambing: A Bozo Sate Song

Now whose idea was it?
We cannot say because it
Might be Rove, or might be Miers
Cheyney just said: "Get me pliers!"
Kyle's last twist: the screw
Abandoned liars
I guess it's nothing new.

When did the surge need surging?
We cannot say, AG's purging!
His DAs don't await on God
To manufacture voter fraud
Thus ev'ry show of confidence
E-mailed to Sampson's long past tense
Detressed: we might construe.

The Flotilla Of Scylla: A Bozo Concrete Song

We beat the Nazis in less time
McCain and Rove still sell their slime
Within a fearful terror clime
Iraq continues not to rhyme.

The British sailors are now dupes
Of mullahs putting off the coups
Tortured? Boarded? But well past frank
Beyond serial, name, and rank.

Guantanamo is how we're seen
When no one's left, except the keen
To sign a statement, bucking law
2 years to go, Bush cleaves us raw.

Free Speech: A Bozo Climate Song

Up next: Imus in the morning!
"He'll have to go!": Sharpton scorning
It's hard to tell who screws in cogs
Between two racist demagogues.

The FCC shall not fine bosses
Or say just who's behind Don's losses
The hatred is what brings in change
To keep it simple, sweeps derange:

"McCain, he sprays: "There's no defeating
The stars and stripes", tho' Charlie Keating
He bought himself a Senator
So who shall be a minotaur?"

The temps they hit deep freeze and thus
Let's set the dial to Theseus.

The Smokies Are Hokies: A Bozo Killing Song

The guns, the guns are never gone
The kids are dead, but never one
Of our leaders can yet gainsay
The dealing with the NRA.

People kill people, so easily
While in Iraq or with Hokies
The guns are just available
But not debated much on cable.

So death, and death, and death is here
And we will not say no to fear
At VTU in freedom's charms
They're finished by our love of arms.

Swallowin' Pill Upon The Hill: A Bozo Justice Song

As executin' Al
A Texan coverin' my pal
I never seemed to recall
Who exactly dropped the ball
My memory's a feat
Not appalled by Senator Pete
Made mistakes, I must repeat
I've got no clue at all
I caught a quaint case of de mal
From a mare named Take The Fall...

So it ain't a brand new credo:
Swim with fishes, just like Fredo.

Going Somewhere, Like The Spare: A Bozo Royalty Song

Confusion, chaos gets a veto
And so say Roberts and Alito
Our gals restricted to the greet? Oh
More suiciders fix magneto.

We could just do away with guns
Majorities, like wars, make fun
Of what another father's son
May take upon himself to shun.

Complying with the FISA act
Is balancing the endless fact
That lies cull courage inexact
Or string up politicians' tact.

Our straying from unanointed death
That's pretty much old history news
Deafening, more than sirens' breath,
Our leavened common sense renews.

The Bustier Of Justice: A Bozo Lingerie Song

McNulty made it plain as day
His cash is short, two decades pay
Was not enough to 'meliorate
Tuition, what a turn of fate!

"I blame my kids, now in college
Clued in? Not yet, to my knowledge
Ok, I swore it wasn't so
But now I bail on Alberto..."

"It's hard to be a bureaucrat
With politics as cold as that
I guess you'd say I was a hack
Brought face to face with the Rove whack".

"He will be missed", said the AG,
"But not as dissed as I shall be
To hold these truths and do our best
We fight the tides, Canutes undressed
So e-mail light will never see."

Calling Falwell Home (At Last): A Bozo Necromancy Song

Jerry is so very dead.
Like Ford, I can but smile
It's never out of style
These endings dunderhead.

Such men of best intentions
Kept justice far away
They were not worth a mention
Until the asses' judgment day
Called home anal retentions.

Their sort of evil never dies
It now retorts on failing spies
Or shifts again to spewing lies
Til death removes all alibis:

Jerry is so very dead
I'm glad, I'm glad, I'm glad
It's never ever very rad
To wish his hatred had not led
Amoral mortals whom we dread.

The H Street Deli: A Bozo Wolfie Song

We thank him for this
We could not quite kiss
We say he's amiss
We'll come to his bris:

At the bris strode a gal
She got paid, but he shall
Not tell anyone, gall!
That's the neocon pall.

So our country seems small
And again all alone
Like the peach without stone
Who says: "Should be like this".

Memorial Day: A Bozo Dishonoring Song

We honor those who die in war
We never ask what deaths are for
Our President, whose lies did kill
Won't sacrifice, our nation's ill.

The cycling of the Rolling Thunder
To celebrate one war of blunder
So what exactly did we learn
From just another death grip turn?

The terrorists who were not there
Remain at large, and who shall care?
One more disaster makes the case
For reelecting empty space.

The Rising Above: A Bozo Overcoming Song

Babe and I, we sure know what for
A simple European tour:
There leaders make a bold pretence
To justify missile defense.

The Russkies and Iranians
They call our bluff, again, again
Thrall and sins of fifth-rate nations
Appalls: don't cry battle stations!

Back home, the anger builds, oh my!
There's prison for that Scooter guy
Who may well find while on appeal
The loyalty that's lacking zeal.

Babe says we seem to round upon
Whatever isn't found anon
Like WMD, or immigrants:
Special effects of right-wing trance.

I say let's be what never was
Cry freedom, or the health care cause,
Just once at last we should not flee
Our manifest of destiny.

The Lame Duck Roast Is Beckoning: A Bozo Ten By Seven Spearing Song

It's a southern white male racist party
With some stragglers from the West
Who hate gays, women, and science smarties
While the rich man is their best!

Some immigrants come upon our nation
Well, they find this party cold
Shouting amnesty's our new creation
Made their Saviour seem quite old.

But the war on terror, hale and hearty
Never ends, so they seem blessed
No, the armor don't fit Billy Barty
So their surge of death don't crest.

Guess their time for ratiocination
Is when truth is never told
Like an extra bowl of Ken-Lay-Ration
Makes their SEC seem bold.

Though what's right is left a wee bit arty
From the payoff that unfolds
Thus their family values are too tarty
For apocalyptic scolds.

Whatever happened to pure elation?
Just you wait,  3 branches dressed
In democracy's less cross relations
Wave good bye, no more depressed!

Congee Congealing: A Bozo Diplomacy Song

What's the Fatah feeling?
Gaza winds grow cold
70 plus reeling
Hamas votes aren't sold.

At last Ehud Olmert
Surveying his polls
To the tune of Alpert
Likud Fleas get rolled.


Gals wait at the border
For the next bill to pass
What seems like disorder
Is just Bushy morass.

Confit Muscovy
Says you're now out of luck
Greetings from KGB
For our new lame duck.


The surge is quite finished
In Palestine
So funds aren't diminished
We sure feel fine.

Wheeze Train Sounding Louder: A Bozo 6x5x8 Come On Song

They call him Tony Blair
He's the new envoy
It don't seem all that fair
To the hoi polloi
They see him starting war
He lacks a noodle
Now peace turds fly out far
From Bush's poodle.

The wonder of it all
Is how no one sweats
Or seems more cynical
Than P. Hilton gets
Herzl's two blushing brides
Who guard each altar
The ex-PM's inside
Their terror halter.

Without a drop of oil
And a base or three
We'd never need their soil
For democracy
Instead we'd find the cure
For their next disease
Just like we do Darfur
Or do as we please.

Aboard The SS Lame Duck: A Bozo Queasy Quisling Song

Scooter lying? I won't refute!
Obstruction? Guess I'll remain mute!
Unequal justice? I commute!
Right-wing smell? So swell, a beaut!
Boil lobsters? Vlad and I InPut!
No bids? Give rich men all the loot!
Dead GIs? Pick al-Qaeda fruit!
My sense of shame? It does not suit!
Raw power never gave a hoot
For law, or vice, no, I just shoot!

Waiting For The See? Change: A Bozo Sepulchral 5x3 Song

We feel them mourning...
Such sad rats!
They ain't quite turning
Though they are spurning
Bushy cats
Dick Lugar's gurning
Welcome mats
One last sojurning
End vampire burning
Caustic bats
Rove keeps on churning
Voter pats
They're done... adjourning
Dead and flat.

Alta Taylor: A Bozo First Lady Song

While Lyndon,  Shmuck in Vietnam
Was stuck like Bush on Here I Stand
But Luther never gave a damn
Their wars, their deaths, for their brass band.

The nailing theses of our time
Are who can shield the richest slime
Or rock with stars for global clime
So never yield! 'til jests don't rhyme.

Lady Bird? well she died today
Hillary? Fucked health care astray
Condoms? Laura clucks, unheeded
Billboards are no longer needed.

Up With Plan B: A Bozo Casual High Fivin' Sex Song

Gosh, when I met you, great!
In the library
We couldn't have sex
I was drunk, you see
So put on a hex
Called it penury
For those fucked by fate
I'm their pharisee.

Will I be on top?
Like in old Saigon
Waitin' for choppers
To carry us on
I guess my whoppers
Are now fully gone
That Scooter's pardon
Made 'em seem quite wrong.


al-Qaeda less?
al-Qaeda more?
What else do we mean?
What are we now for?
I'm going to guess
In the terror's gore
I'll reach for your dress
And go for the score.

The Congress still whines
Bush looks like Custer
But count up the lines
No filibuster
So more GIs die
For not much, we know
We're ready to fly
Not ready to grow.


Iraq, yep no shock
Gets a failing grade
In home of the brave
We've got it made
Tho' we're still in hock
To the carry trade
I guess awe and shock
Are the price we gave.

The Guns Of July: A Bozo Vamping Song

The Lugar and the Warner
Respected dopes don't overcome
A White House on the corner
Of Iraq and Zero Sum.

These may decide to take the loss
But Cheyney is Decider's boss
So more kids die, for nothing
Like those before, for nothing.

When do we say enough's enough
Or say this war's a coward's bluff?
Columns not Iraqi troops
Never ready, that's the scoop.

While on vacation parliaments
Their cloture fails, they don't strike tents
They are not quite so aghast
Repeat lessons from the past.

Nineteen Seven: A Bozo Villanelle Song

When Alberto parses words
Truth and terror rarely mix
To be drowned in lapsing chords.

In Iraq it's mostly swords
From a future we can't fix
When Alberto parses words.

And there's no one buying Fords
Even with all rebate tricks
To be drowned in lapsing chords.

With Bush screaming all aboards
Who will buy these half priced tix?
When Alberto parses words.

Ever building rich man's hoards
A new arms race summer sicks
To be drowned in lapsing chords.

Nothing much is untowards
All agog, Bart Simpson flicks
When Alberto parses words
To be drowned in lapsing chords. 

Speaking Of Tillman
: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

"I don't recall!", always what the cowards say
When spying, they lacked the guts for oversight
Lying: "Stuff happens!", or so it seemed one May
Appearing heroes, raised ratings overnight
But levees broke, no bid contracts, unraised pay
Humvees open, trailers, missions over, blight
Unfriendly fire ever aimed at Democrats
Until one day voters threw out welcome mats.

Labeling The Black Karl: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

So off to hunt where no one's story can be told
Recused by claims, off limits from oath or truth
Wasteland now beckons for Nixon's college scold,
Who played only spin and lying games , forsooth!
When no more pointless wars were left to be sold
A future far and right tolled glumly at poll booth
One subprime party rule dreamt up by nobles
As dead and gone as Alamo or Goebbels.

Drexel's Revenge: A Bozo Villanelle Song

The liquidity's a sore
And the leverage it kills
While the stocks they just keep score.

Where Karl Rove has gone before
There's a frightened bunch of shills
The liquidity's a sore.

Dave Petraeus goes for more
One report will pay his bills
While the stocks they just keep score.

Far flung satellites of yore
Focus spying, terror drills
The liquidity's a sore.

Out goes freedom, no encore
Once abandoned, fear refills
While the stocks they just keep score.

So the rich red wine shall pour
Goes with beef from Gitmo grills
The liquidity's a sore
While the stocks they just keep score.

You Can't Spell Analogy Lacking Anal: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

"Iraq, if we pull out, it's like Vietnam!"
Words: killing fields, boat people, millions betrayed
By those who thought up domino theory sham
While a son safe at home, Dad made sure he stayed
Easy come his yes to any offered gram
Easy go when he found out the Saviour paid.
"Vietnam, if we surge on, becomes Iraq!"
Words: last throes, right guy, stuff happens, Baghdad clock.

Ketcham If You Can: A Bozo Villanelle Song

Game of footsie in an aerodrome.
Until the cop says I've seen that move
No guns protect solons far from home.

In subprime world, there's a Zurich gnome
Seeing red, so borrows from Fed love
Game of footsie in an aerodrome.

Great poppies fleeing Karzai's realm roam
Supply, demand, they never quite prove
No guns protect solons far from home.

Alberto finds his form turns to foam
The loyalty ends in show trial grove
Game of footsie in an aerodrome.

Waiting like miners for rich veined loam
Seek rescue from one more year above
No guns protect solons far from home.

Grounders, pepper games, a stonewall tome
Read third time, pleas and bills, lost your glove?
Game of footsie in an aerodrome
No guns protect solons far from home.

A Duck, Lame, Dead, and Going: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

Is there a left brain for more weighty matters?
With no tolerance for ever ready bans
Or Princess Di,  or record steroid batters
Or the wayward peckers called Republicans.
Houses of New Orleans remain in tatters
Houses elsewhere auctioned whole, with pots and pans.
It could be our never seeing is the cure
To get those 48 million to insure.

The Kimchi Quotient: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

We're really very sorry, our government's off you know
They paid for us missionaries far from home
Issued passports so our politics don't show
To take us back really hurts our right to roam.
So every God creates the might, and how
When disciples die, their leaders build snow dome
Richochet, goofy guys, Peter Potamus
Get a whole lot of muss, no one makes a fuss...

To Beg For Ends As Larry Craig Bends: A Bozo Villanelle Song

He'll not rescind his resign again.
It's a second guesser's wayward hymn
Whenever surge lags, go back to spin.

Madams on speed dial, they're not a sin.
Unless you order a him on him.
He'll not rescind his resign again.

A house foreclosed in the hedge fund bin?
Last throes, Petraeus, is he the shim?
Whenever surge lags, go back to spin.

A stance so wide you can feel his shin
Veto proof margins so bruised and slim
He'll not rescind his resign again.

The tours extend, our patience wears thin
More deaths bring no deals, it's all quite grim
Whenever surge lags, go back to spin.

A position of strength fails to win
Out come hand signals of fear and whim
He'll not rescind his resign again.
Whenever surge lags, go back to spin.

Translation Falters In The Land Of The Lost: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

The tape it comes on time, and dye jobs glisten
Looks like remaining free, because we don't know
Why no one asks why we don't know or listen
So terror rankles, six years on, keeps the snow
Piling High Petraeus defines the mission:
Armies dying, never knowing when to go.
A job, a home, long gone, a war lacking pause
No leadership 'til well beyond Santa Claus.

Anniversaries, Reports, Retort: A Bozo Villanelle Song

They don't want to talk about the past.
Do they think the future's very clear?
Best to pretend to be hard and fast.

The diplomat and general's cast:
Thousands more families shed a tear.
They don't want to talk about the past.

Spinning seems never ending and vast.
Around and around the sound bites smear.
Best to pretend to be hard and fast.

The surge isn't over until the last
Pointless death from the victory spear
They don't want to talk about the past.

Six years of freedom lashed to the mast.
Old killers alive still have no fear
Best to pretend to be hard and fast.

We seem to finally be aghast
At how we forgot what was held dear!
They don't want to talk about the past.
Best to pretend to be hard and fast.

The January Thaw Before Fear's Last Straw: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

All a dance of death when 60 votes aren't there.
Wary terpsichores wait out the lemmings' slip.
Will they jump when hastened by defeat's broad scare?
Or stay as they all go down without the ship?
War brings death like plague and no one knows what's fair.
Latest polls say chance to win is not a blip. 
Fox trot calculus is lost in what is won
Fingering the levers pulled by those not gone.

The Flabby Muscled Fate Of Brussels: A Bozo Villanelle Song

Unmourned, Belgium is facing the nix.
No baying crowds there come out today
It's different for the Jena 6.

The races Walloon and Flemish mix
But don't much care who shall go or stay
Unmourned, Belgium is facing the nix.

In tiresome South black and white don't fix
The justice cry returns bull horn sway
It's different for the Jena 6.

Chocolates and beer and Tintin pix
Contempt, cover ups, Euroland way
Unmourned, Belgium is facing the nix.

A noose, a fight, and Al Sharpton's flix
A brawling con, war and spying flay
It's different for the Jena 6. 

Young don't rebel except against hicks
Where hope's long gone for a better day
Unmourned, Belgium is facing the nix.
It's different for the Jena 6.

No Time For Subprime, Or Sergeants , or Quick Lime: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

Our greenback becoming like crores of rupee?
Awaiting the wise men to balance accounts?
Global warming: more houses gored, we can't flee!
There will not be bankers on new Rushmore mounts.
In God we may trust, but dear Ben Bernanke
Cuts rates, satisfies Wall Street lust, that's what counts.
There's hardly much left to sell to each other
Except for anger, if we care to bother.

The Profit Margin Of Being Marines: A Bozo Villanelle Song

Mercenaries are hired to be the troops
Contractors, dips, Green Zone leaders guard
In DC, elections don't lead to coups.

Iraqis? Not enough to serve kitchen soups,
They're busy being turned into Swiss chard
Mercenaries are hired to be the troops.

Journalists? Well, where are the non-Hersh scoops?
An Army way too small, Blackwater card
In DC, elections don't lead to coups.

The Dems again are running focus groups
Who say, "Let's go! It's not rocket science hard!"
Mercenaries are hired to be the troops.

Being leader is not all about whoops
But whoops are what serves up policy shard
In DC, elections don't lead to coups.

What's left and right we see as useless poops
Unstraining, flowing, unpoetic bard
Mercenaries are hired to be troops.
In DC, elections don't lead to coups.

Getting To Grips With Grippe, Or Gipper's SCHIP: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

The kids pass away in emergency rooms.
A President must have his philosophy.
These aren't volunteers in Iraq hecatombs
Or remnants of socialized apostasy.
We write checks for Pyongyang's nuclear dooms
By kiting the grandchildren's debts whole and free.
So what is the price of moral suasion?
Ask youngsters who die for a fifth-rate nation. 

Don't Mention The War, It May Well Lead To More: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

Genocides never count when they happened before
Whatever time no one wants to return.
To say killing's wrong makes today's leaders sore,
They aren't the old ones we did not spurn.
Remind me again when our founders of yore
Were afraid of free speech or Old Glory burn?
Thanksgiving soon, let's forget about turkey
So pilgrim denial remains quite perky...

Taking The Baath A Border: A Bozo Villanelle Song 

The billions now requested
To buy houses in the stores
Are vetoed, not protested.

No child is ever tested
To improve the health care scores
The billions now requested.

Pensions no longer vested
Like the polls about most wars
Are vetoed, not protested.

The troops are never bested
But their deaths remain what fors?
The billions now requested.

We chafe like lice infested
To be sprayed until the sores
Are vetoed, not protested.

Our might seems merely crested
By the politician bores
The billions now requested
Are vetoed, not protested.

Keeping Home Fires Burning, Injustice Gurning: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

Fires torch with despair until the winds die down.
California's mass will rebuild their house.
San Diego gave Duncan Hunter a crown.
While those left in trailers do not yet arouse.
A question to incense the best cap and gown:
Fight against rule of gold as golden rule louse?
Strung up noose back to claim an ignorance right
No pretense, past burns brightly throughout the night.

The Rulers Measure How We Come Home To Roost: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

We came to see Pervez as we had before
The lynchpin of our arms sales and terror fights
Who cut deals to safekeep us from Wazir war
So doing, we let him off on human rights.
Is he an ally corrupted at the core?
Or just another case of how "progress" blights?
Emergency! Policy begins to switch
Until we find our next great son of a bitch.

Taking It All Off G Strings: A Bozo Villanelle Song

The uniform no longer fits.
To take it off would be a shame
As terror wars now end in snits.

The rule of law wet from Bush spits
While playing up the old fear game
The uniform no longer fits.

At Citibank the board still sits
Chuck had to go, his losses lame
As terror wars now end in snits.

The GDP of Finland hits
Equals Iran or fifth-rate fame
The uniform no longer fits.

Formaldehyde in trailer bits
The poor nonwhite, forever same
As terror wars now end in snits.

This leadership of lesser shits
Remains what no one dares to tame
The uniform no longer fits
As terror wars now end in snits.

Sky King Was Burned In The Fire: A Bozo Villanelle Song

I wish he'd take the express lane far away.
So we could could come home without another dead
It's hard to know what's left to believe or say.

A thoughtless kind of swagger and so we stay
To fight for nothing, exhaling zealot's head.
I wish he'd take the express lane far away.

The bailing out of Wall Street is how we pay
For alchemy: security reverts to lead.
It's hard to know what's left to believe or say.

Sanctions? A neocon's dream, a pepper spray
Bugging eyes out while old Herzl's bride rewed.
I wish he'd take the express lane far away.

An army recruiting cons is come what may
Pass the debt along, bad choices are inbred.
It's hard to know what's left to believe or say.

The oil, the fear, the failure it still holds sway
We rise and fall in a mortgaged feather bed.
I wish he'd take the express lane far away.
It's hard to know what's left to believe or say. 

No Thanksgiving Without Dreaded Feckless Deal: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

"I was mislead, now I'm doin' the yellin'!"
One more loyal Bushie is selling a book
Lest we forget, here he is: Scott McLellan
Who, while in power, never bothered to look
Ex-generals played this game but fell in
Like Powell, now only a cowardly crook.
The point of principle is not to stand by
While those without ethics continue to lie.

Two Sheets Of Faery Liquid Into The Wind: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

She crab cakes are tasty: a thinning message weak.
Floor the peace pedal at one last spinning game.
Bay Bridge angst against subpoenas and for leaks,
Until pardons sweep and hook vast rugs of fame.
Parties swear by loyalty so fine and sleek
Forever catching, envisage this week's shame:
Henry Hyde, a medal for intolerance
Is gone, but who might care, given half a chance?

Dems versus Red State Dickhead: A Bozo Pastiche Song  (with apologies to the Royal Guardsmen)

After the turn of the century
In the clear blue skies over WTC
Came a roar and a thunder men had never heard
The scream and the sound of Osama's herd.

Up in the sky, a gent in a plane
George W. Bush was his name
He only lied, so 3,000 died,
To bring sad defeat to our country's side.


Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty or more
The WMD's as scarce as before
3,000 died to end the spree
Of the Red State Dickhead GWB.

In the nick of time, a hero arose
A thing called freedom didn't like being hosed
So the voters cried, "That's enough revenge!"
But the Prez shot 'em down, with his surgin' grin.


Now Democrats swear that they'll finish their man
And maybe get started on a health care plan
They'll challenge the White House and put up a fight. 
Before Bush's next war has us in its sight.


That Red State Dickhead is at last in a fix
He's tried every slime, but he's run out of tricks
Voters fooled once, and even fooled twice
Will take their revenge on what's left of the right.


Sums Of Paulson Conundrum: A Bozo Villanelle Song

We are drowning in subprime
And the tapes are not on show
So there hasn't been a crime.

There's a bailout and a mime
But it's not Marcel Marceau
We are drowning in subprime.

While in Wall Street biding time
Short recession is now go
So there hasn't been a crime.

Still the tendancy to slime
Is this lame duck's status quo
We are drowning in subprime.

Waterboarding and quick lime
Might be dead, do we yet know?
So there hasn't been a crime.

When cleansing all this grime
In a bathtub, like a ho'
We are drowning in subprime
So there hasn't been a crime.

The Brown Cow In Tow, Here Comes Kiriakou: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

I never had the power to destroy tapes
Waterboarding made my life seem less than saved.
The torture came later, when I tried on capes
To bring rendition back, I suppose I caved....
Spooks called lawyers, thus soon became jackanapes
Then terror departed, judged by how all raved
Out orders, they were followed, no denying
Now morals chased to death must go on spying.

Conspiracy: They've All Got It Infamy: A Bozo Ottava Rima Song

Is the Bhutto death merely two with one stroke?
Serving Western policy that seems bereft?
Musharaf cannot quite be a people's bloke
Benizir unmourned at home, abroad by left
Terror wars go on, in endless fires and smoke
Our bitch, our son, both no longer having heft
A Veep who lately was frozen out by luck
Reigns still in planes, just ask old Zia ul-Haq.

The 2007 Score: A Bozo Eve Song

Our anthem now is "Because They're Not Like Us".
So a few thousand unknown in our sights again
To stay not overthrown, we warm up the bus.  

When the fence is built, no one will make a fuss
The wages on farms are death, but not yet sin
Our anthem now is "Because They're Not Like Us".

A woman dies in a foreign field, we don't cuss
With shields full of fear, one more spinning has been
To stay not overthrown, we warm up the bus.

It's a time of more gilt, so no one can suss
How we got to this sphere, where the rich man is kin
Our anthem now is "Because They're Not Like Us".

How low is the yield? Seems the leaking, like pus
May sieve out the harm, or land up in a bin
To stay not overthrown, we warm up the bus.

The fights against what we've become are legion
A languished, staving off fits ev'ry region
Our anthem now is "Because They're Not Like Us".
To stay not overthrown, we warm up the bus.

(All Songs On This Web Page Are Copyright ©2006-2007,
Los Bozos Bravos, P.W. Meek, and Gorilla Meek Enterprises,
All Rights Reserved)

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