SiteRing by Bravenet.com

Please support Soldiers' Angels and Project Valour-IT

[Via email from Russ, who'll be a valued member of the OLD WAR DOGS team when we open the new site to the public.]

All the Way!
Paratroopers are taught to never give up; their motto is “All the Way, Airborne!”

The way I see Liberals, when all’s said and done,
Is like those who’d fall out of their last jump school run.
We all started those runs with the will to succeed,
But for some the pain just surpassed their need,
To stand in that door in the blast of the props,
To go all the way, pulling out all the stops,
Accepting the challenge that stood you up here,
Your feet in the door, your heart pounding with fear.

Some folks are quitters, who fall by the way,
While others run past them, determined to stay,
Enduring the aches, sucking glory through pain,
For the jump wings they seek and the glory they gain.
“All the way,” is their hymn, the cadence they sing,
As they blow past the burn, reaching for the brass ring;
But the quitters fall out; they can’t handle the pain,
Ensuring only the best and the hardest remain.

War is like jump school, the going gets rough,
And playing at tough is just not enough.
It’s the spirit within you that says you won’t quit,
Proves that you’re worthy, proves that you’re fit,
To fight on in combat when comrades are falling,
To fight for your life, for your cause, for your calling,
With never a thought you might possibly yield,
And never one thought of retreat from the field.

Those who toughed out those runs, stood in that door,
Don’t understand those who won’t fight anymore;
Can’t fathom their calls for retreat from Iraq,
Calls to pull out our troops, to bring them all back,
Thank goodness we’ve men who’ll stand in that door
And go all the way till the fight is no more.
Paratroopers are winners, who’ll stay ‘til it’s done,
But most Libs are quitters, who won’t finish the run. 

Russ Vaughn

Posted by Bill Faith on June 28, 2006 at 03:24 AM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

---

Hallowed Human Shields

Libs think Hillary’s smart as a whip,
I think she’s just a fraud.
She couldn’t hold Ann Coulter’s slip;
Ann’s America’s sharpest broad.
She chews up liberal talking heads,
With wit so quick and cunning,
Rips Alan Colmes to bloody shreds,
And sends Matt Lauer running.

But now she’s really gone too far,
All the liberal lambs are bleating;
Is there nothing sacred she won’t tar?
My word, she’s widow-beating!
“Can you believe it?” reporters gasp,
“Those are victims that she’s dissing;
How dare that vicious rightwing asp
Threaten widows with her hissing?”

Our lovely Ann’s beyond the pale,
Got the Libs all hot and fuming;
Why, this attack is off the scale,
Sacred cows this blonde's exhuming.
And with every shovelful of dirt,
We see from her indiscretion,
How Libs exploit such human hurt,
Then dare our right to question.

No, we mustn’t challenge anything,
Regardless how dumb or windy,
From a brain-fried lefty dingaling,
Like grave top screeching Cindy;
Or Cleland, Murtha, and Kerry,
Because of war, beyond aspersion,
Or those Jersey Widows Merry,
No, we daren’t dispute their version.

But Ms. Ann, so lithe and lethal, went ahunting in Liberal fields,
And sank her fangs in the haunches of their hallowed human shields.

Russ Vaughn

---

***

Allah has a somewhat related note here.

Posted by Bill Faith on June 13, 2006 at 03:15 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Damn I enjoy writing that. The last time I did was here.

---

The Star Spangled Banter
(Zarqawi Version)

Oh say did you see that bright flash of light?
You so proudly we nailed at the twilight’s last gleaming…
Though we bet you saw stars on your very last night,
O’er the networks we watched your ass silently steaming…
And the rockets red glare spreading your ass everywhere,
Gave proof through the night that you’re no longer there…
Oh say does our banter now waft o’er your grave,
From the land of the free and the home of the brave…

Russ Vaughn

---

***

John B. Dwyer: Killing Zarqawi

***

Autopsy shows Zarqawi was indeed killed by bomb blast

Zarqawi: More Inappropriate Glee

"Lovely wooded acre lot, spacious open-air home for sale."

***

Captain Ed: The Beat Didn't Go On

***

Christopher Hitchens: Why Amman helped track down Zarqawi.

***

The WaPo has some information I didn't know before here.

Posted by Bill Faith on June 12, 2006 at 04:35 AM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Forsaken Honor, Forgotten Shame
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
-- Macbeth 1.7

The liberals found a new Macbeth
To bait the media with claims of death,
And atrocious acts by his own men,
Opportunely vague 'bout where and when.
But liberal bloggers shared with glee,
New proof of our troops' infamy;
Web witches stirred their bitter brew,
Caring not their broth might be untrue.

But liberals heed not lessons learned,
That hollow heroes leave them burned.
So fools rush in, disdaining danger,
And hold on high a phony Ranger,
Exploit a mentally troubled youth,
To extend their version of the truth.
Because our troops they so despise,
They swallowed whole his vicious lies.

So now we witness once again,
The Lefties just can't seem to win,
When it comes to picking warrior heroes,
Liberal heroes often turn out zeroes,
Who wrap themselves up in the flag,
And unlike heroes, boast and brag;
And trot out rows of Purple Hearts,
For scratches on their body parts.

Why must they seek to elevate
Themselves with lies that desecrate
The brave and honorable reputation
Of those who serve, protect our nation?
John Kerry, Murtha and Macbeth,
All share a trait, exploiting death.
In their own selfish quest for fame,
They've forsaken honor, forgotten shame.

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

Posted by Bill Faith on May 27, 2006 at 07:12 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

---

Just One Old Ernie Pyle

As a boy of four in ’44 I missed out on his style;
But at thirty-six in ’76 I learned more of Ernie Pyle.
To read his tributes to our troops always brought the question why,
That my own war’s correspondents didn’t hold our troops as high.
I’d witnessed acts of bravery as great as World War Two,
But press accounts of those same acts were seldom, they were few;
More likely to be displayed in morning print or evening news,
Were American acts of cruelty to prop up protestors’ views.

Ernie placed himself in battle’s midst, not seeking safer shelter;
He sought the trenches sought the fight, sought out the helter-skelter.
He told the folks back in the States grim truths about their brave,
Providing families insights they could reread, they could save.
Ol’ Ernie gave the folks back home proud memories they could treasure,
Unlike sly Walter Cronkite feeding enemies evening pleasure.
Nope, Ernie wrote of men he loved up until his final deadline,
Unlike Arnett and other creeps seeking only a bigger headline.

Where did they go those of the press who believed America good?
The ones who’d write about our troops and for the things they stood?
What madness does possess them that they now extol our losses,
Finding fault in all we try to do, debasing all our causes?
We serve, we fight so that they might have freedom to convey,
The good things that we’re doing, the good we do each day.
But instead they undermine us in their sniping, gloating style;
I’d swap every damned one of ‘em for just one old Ernie Pyle.

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

---

I can't mention Ernie Pyle without including these two links, which Russ says inspired the above poem:

War correspondent Ernie Pyle's columns to find a new audience through the Web

The Wartime Columns of Ernie Pyle

Posted by Bill Faith on May 27, 2006 at 03:55 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

---

Mr. Bush, Tear Down That Cross

On a hill in San Diego
Stands a monument to our losses;
A tribute to our wartime dead
Like many other crosses.
Against a tranquil azure sky,
This cross has borne the years,
It’s spreading shadow falling
Upon graves that bear our tears.
For decades no one’s questioned
This pale tribute to our slain,
Until angry Libs at ACLU,
Decided to complain;
And seek a federal order
From robed fools in Sodom town,
That this offensive Christian symbol
Must forthwith be torn down.

To everything’s a season,
A time for birth and dying,
A time, too, for love of country
To fall victim to Liberal lying;
A time for those of any faith,
Those heartfelt, frank believers,
To be ridiculed and rejected
By hollow harsh deceivers;
But there is a time as well
When truth must sure prevail,
When our hearts sense basic truth,
Causing fools like these to fail.
And stand we must against these fools,
Or it will be our gravest loss,
If these fools succeed when they demand,
Mr. Bush, tear down that cross.

The Left’s has ne’er forgotten how Ronald Reagan brought their fall
When with his words he changed the world by tearing down their wall.

Russ Vaughn

---

(Copied from The American Thinker with Russ's permission)

Posted by Bill Faith on May 12, 2006 at 12:33 AM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Try crossing our southern border; try going the other way,
To enter Mexico illegally for an extended, unlawful stay. 
Ignore immigration quotas, all their visas and their fees,
And quietly slip their border, anytime you damn well please.
Just sneak in past the policía, ignoring Mexican laws;
You’ve a desperate need to improve your lot; you have a righteous cause.
With Evil Bush in power now, destroying your liberal order,
You’ve a right to seek asylum, to trespass their northern border.

Once there, speak English only and demand it in their schools;
Forget assimilation; make Mexicanos change their rules.
What right do these Latinos have to make you learn their lingo?
Tell those churlish campesinos¹ you’ve the right to remain a gringo.
Move right on in, live your own way, ignore their cultural norms,
And demand the use of English on all their official forms.
Free healthcare is, of course, your right; let poor peones² pay,
For bilingual health providers throughout your border-bending stay.

Be sure to have a baby just as quickly as you can;
A citizen in the family helps legitimize your clan.
Then have another three or four, or maybe six or eight;
Don’t worry how you’ll feed them, just demand help from the state.
Paisanos³ paying taxes may resent your reckless breeding,
And protest loudly to their states about your gringo kids they’re feeding;
“But it’s just our way,” is your excuse, “Brought from our Yanquí land.”
How dare they question gringo ways they’ll never understand?

So defend your Anglo ethos; yield not your Yanquí essence;
And demand a driver’s license to legitimize your presence.
Just so you know what you’ve done wrong in case of policía stops,
Insist the Federales must teach English to all cops.
Make Mexicans accept your ways, make them your pliant fools;
Demand a Yanquí culture course be taught in all their schools.
So what you paid no taxes; when you’re an old gringo who will care?
File for your Seguridad Social, after all, you’re due your share.

If all this sounds preposterous, an irrational expectation,
Dems are demanding it for Illegals now in our multicultural nation.

Russ Vaughn

¹Rube, hick, unsophisticated person
²Laborer, worker
³Citizen

Posted by Bill Faith on May 1, 2006 at 03:02 PM in Mexican-American War 2, Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

---

New poem inspired by Cindy's latest antics:

Poor Lad

A mother weeps with tears that burn,
From her son’s death will she not learn?
Will she then honor what she lost,
Pay tribute to his personal cost?
Or will she use his death to preach,
Perched on his coffin will she screech,
And damn the cause her dead son served,
Her special spot in hell reserved?

There are those many who agree,
This mother has a voice that’s free,
To vent her anger scream her sorrow,
Remind us all of death’s tomorrow.
But what of those men fighting there?
Must they this mother’s anger bear?
Mad mother questioning what they do,
Who disrespects our valiant few.

I’m tired of her public pass to grieve,
From the media world, she now should leave,
And give her son’s poor soul some rest,
Stop undermining our bravest best,
Who fight to let this woman speak,
To let her scream, to let her shriek,
Her misguided hatred of her nation.
And the very ones give her salvation.

Oh, Cindy please fade into night,
And cease your rage against the light,
That illuminates your dead son’s goal,
The saving grace that guards his soul,
Which sadly you can’t seem to see,
What he sought most is victory;
A victory that his buddies won,
Now they, not you, salute your son.

How tragic that a soldier’s death should be so poorly used;
Poor lad, so sad, so tragically, by his mother so abused.

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

---

Posted by Bill Faith on April 21, 2006 at 07:39 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Donny Boy

(With a tip a’ me hat to the gent who penned the original)

Oh Donny boy, the snipes, the snipes are bawling,
From spin to spin, some generals now decide,
The war’s all wrong and for your head they’re calling,
‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go, they want your hide.

But guard your back from those now in the meadow,
From starry pundits claim they told you so.
To hype their books, they snipe you from the shadow,
Oh Donny boy, oh Donny boy, they hate you so.

And if you run when all the media’s lying,
Then truth is dead as dead the truth may be.
They’ll howl and hound you ‘til you are a’ dying,
And spiel an evil epitaph for thee.   

And they will sneer no matter what befalls thee,
At all your dreams of sweetest victory,
For if you win they’ll still not ever love thee,
You’ll see no peace until Bush cuts you free.

Oh Donny boy, the snipes, the snipes are bawling,
From spin to spin, they’re crying for your hide.
Your war is lost is what the media’s calling,
Tis you must go, they want ol’ Rummy fried.

Russ Vaughn

---

"I-know-better" generals get on the slippery slope
by Charles Krauthammer

WASHINGTON -- Last time around, the anti-war left did not have a very high opinion of generals. A popular slogan in the 1960s was "war is too important to be left to the generals.'' It was the generals who had advocated attacking Cuba during the missile crisis of October 1962, while the civilians preferred -- and got -- a diplomatic solution. In popular culture, "Dr. Strangelove'' made indelible the caricature of the war-crazed general. And it was I-know-better generals who took over the U.S. government in a coup in the 1960s best-seller and movie "Seven Days in May.''

Another war, another take. I-know-better generals are back. Six of them, retired, are denouncing the Bush administration and calling for Donald Rumsfeld's resignation as secretary of defense. The anti-war types think this is just swell.

I don't. ...

[Read on here.]

---

Posted by Bill Faith on April 21, 2006 at 04:52 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

---

Higher Education
Inspired by the Sean Hannity interview with Ward Churchill

We send our kids to college,
To get an education;
We send them there for knowledge,
Not to learn to hate their nation.
The billions that we pay,
These high priced institutions,
Should pay to teach our kids a way,
To seek life’s best solutions.

But Sixties losers from the Left,
Have seized the ivory towers,
So now our kids must sit bereft,
Absorbing agitprop for hours.
They hear not the words of Winnie,
A true Churchill of distinction,
But some phony Indian ninnie,
Who prophesies their extinction.

And while your kid can’t get in Yale,
Can’t make the grade or cut,
They admit a turbaned, Taliban male,
A terrorist from a hut.
So now he learns at our expense,
And no woman dare sit near,
How to worm his way past our defense,
Undermine all we hold dear.

What fools they are who claim to be,
The brightest in our nation;
Not even smart as you and me,
Despite their lofty station.
No common sense do they possess,
Or they’d teach our kids what’s right;
Their Marxist minds a muddled mess,
They’re fools won’t see the light.

Someday our warriors will return seeking higher institutions,
Should not surprise those so unwise, they may face retributions.

Russ Vaughn

---

Posted by Bill Faith on April 8, 2006 at 07:35 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Read Blackfive's post here and make your opinion known.

***

I had several things on my mind at once when I originally posted about this and didn't say as much about it as I might have otherwise. I posted some thoughts on the matter in Blackfive's comments section and, while I managed to stir up some discussion, soon found myself in the minority, at odds, among others, with my friends Rurik and William Page, and with the thoughts Uncle Jimbo posted here. I guess the clincher for me was this poem I received in my email a little while ago:

---

My Salute

Who’ll tell this vet he can’t salute?
Whoever does may feel my boot.
I took the oath, I fought the fight,
So who’s to question my earned right?
It’s my decision when and where;
What other’s think I couldn’t care.
I don’t salute for mere effect;
I salute to show my deep respect,
For my fellow warriors and Old Glory;
End of argument, end of story.

Russ Vaughn

---

Posted by Bill Faith on March 23, 2006 at 07:42 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

---

Poor Casey

Poor Casey sees his mother,
Being used but once again,
To mouth words of another,
Likes of who did him in.
Poor fool she is, and poorly used,
To claim the mother’s place,
Of one who died and now’s abused,
By his mother now disgraced.

Poor Casey fought to win his war,
He fought to do what’s right;
His memory’s now become a sore,
In his mother’s fool cast light.
A young man felt the need to serve,
To meet his country’s need;
But mother felt the need for fame,
To salve her ego’s greed.

Poor Casey rests now sorely,
A boy stressed in his grave,
Served by his mother poorly,
A soulless left wing slave,
Who postures on the very ground,
That shelter’s Casey’s soul,
A foolish, faithless media hound,
Who disgraced her brave son's role.

Ah, Cindy, Lass, you sold your soul, for fortune’s fleeting fame,
To dance upon your son’s grave and disgrace his warrior’s name.
May God sometime forgive you, but we warriors never will,
You sold your soul, sold out your son, someday you’ll pay the bill.

Russ Vaughn

Note: May God forgive Cindy Sheehan; I will not, ever. In the history of this country no mother has ever done so much to disgrace the memory of a fallen, warrior son. Cindy Sheehan has placed herself in the infamous ranks of Jane Fonda and John Kerry, all traitors to their country. All three are opportunistic, soulless cretins who sold their souls for fame and political fortune.

Damn them forever.

---

Posted by Bill Faith on March 17, 2006 at 04:54 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

---

The Sore of Gore
Russ Vaughn

Their gluteus maximus bears a sore,
A festering furuncle named Al Gore.
A six year old deep down infection,
Contagion caused by close election.
Party doctors can’t decide just what,
Will cure this boil upon their butt,
Knowing only that it pains their tush,
A fearsome bug, georgicoccus bush.

[Read on here.]

---

Posted by Bill Faith on February 14, 2006 at 09:18 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Image courtesy of wounded warrior CPT Chuck Ziegenfuss.

---

WaPo Weasels

Wanna draw a soldier, Toles? Here I am,
Back with all four limbs from Vietnam.
You wanna draw pictures of fighting men?
Just tell me where and tell me when.
I'll give you a pose to impress any viewer,
Your punk arty ass comatose in the sewer.
Like all of your kind you don't have a clue
Who fightin' men are and what fightin' men do.

That you, your kind, you effete panty waists,
With Hollywood morals, metrosexual tastes,
Would taunt a brave warrior's fight for life,
Mock his loss, his pain, deride his strife;
And use his sorrow to support your screed,
With no concern for the warrior's need,
Tells me you are clueless of the facts of war,
You're a cut 'n run, spineless, media whore.

Go to Walter Reed hospital, smug Mr. Toles,
To see those you've mocked, those grave injured souls
View young wounded warriors with bodies so broken
And think once again of the message you've spoken,
So abysmally ignorant, so smug condescending
That even most liberals won't waste time defending.
So Toles it's a fact that your most famous work
Will proclaim you forever as a pitiless jerk.

And Washington Post you're as bad as this weasel
You gave him the forum, provided his easel.

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

---

***

Don't miss Blackfive's related post here.

Posted by Bill Faith on February 3, 2006 at 02:29 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

---

The Banana Brain Song
Russ Vaughn

Yo-yo, yo-oh-yo-yo,
No lights on an’ nobody home,
Yo, I’m a yo, I’m a yo, I’m a yo, I’m a yo-oh-yo-yo,
Me wits gone dim an’ I oughta stay home…

Sing all me life fo’ de white man’s fun,
Now no lights on an’ nobody home,
Stack dem records an’ de money come,
Now no lights on an’ nobody home…

[Read on here.]

---

(Read this for some background.)

Posted by Bill Faith on January 13, 2006 at 09:11 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

The latest from the always great Russ Vaughn:

---

Force Multipliers

Wikipedia: force multiplier-a military term referring to a factor that dramatically increases (hence multiplies) the combat-effectiveness of a given military force.

In Iraq an IED explodes,
An American soldier dies,
But that blast will grow as the media blow
It up before our eyes.
And trumpet to the watching world,
These fifth column falsifiers,
Like sheep they bleat we face defeat,
Our foe’s force multipliers.

Osama and his minions know,
In combat they can’t beat us;
So they hope and pray will come a day,
Our own media will defeat us.
Ignoring all the good we’ve done,
Liberals focus on the gore,
On losses mounting and body counting,
To prove we’ve lost this war.

They disgraced us once in Vietnam,
So now these leftists feel,
That again they’ll win with media spin,
And make America kneel.
But defeatists aren’t the only ones,
Learned lessons from the past;
Back then we swore we’d lose no more,
This time we’re standing fast.

The Internet’s exposed them,
As elitist media liars;
They stand unclothed and widely loathed,
Our foe’s force multipliers.
Some day when all our troops return,
With Iraq on freedom’s path,
The liberal elite who sought defeat,
May face some Righteous wrath.

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

---

See my entire Russ Vaughn collection here.

Update:

Welcome Michelle Malkin readers! Please do click the above link to see some of Russ's older work. He's been one of my favorite writers for quite a while now. After you check out my collection, I hope you'll click here and check out the rest of my site.

***

Looks like I'm also getting some traffic from a couple of the reality-challenged sites. Feel free to stay and look around; maybe you'll learn something.

Posted by Bill Faith on January 2, 2006 at 07:07 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBack

In my email:

---

To Whom It Would Be of Interest,

I wrote this poem to discredit and assail the repulsive actions of the Wannabes, who want to reap the benefits from those that have earned and paid the price of freedom's cause.

I thank you and God Bless!


HEY, YOU DON¹T FOOL U.S.

Hey, you wannabe
Some things are sacred
And held at the highest esteem
Unlike your words and actions
That hold no such revere

Hey, you wannabe
You don¹t know why you¹re free
A brave soldier you¹ll never be
From truth and service you¹ll always flee
You have no commitment and loyalty
Except to your deception and foolery

Hey, you wannabe
You bring shame not glory
To the ranks of our military forces
Yes you stand taller and straighter
Than our war torn weary soldiers
Chest emblazoned with medals galore
All bought at the corner dollar store

Hey you wannabe
You mock and irk Veterans
With your disgraceful and disgusting antics
Which are just mouthfuls  of wordy semantics
There¹s not a nick on your boot
Or a scratch on your forehead
To attest to your claims
Of valorous combat duties

Jerry Calow (copyright 2005)

---

Posted by Bill Faith on December 28, 2005 at 07:18 PM in Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

I posted this last year but it's too good not to post every year. This is what should be playing on all the radio stations instead of all that "Rockin' Shoppin' Xmas" crap they play ten time a day.

A Soldier's Silent Night

'Twas The Night Before Christmas,
He Lived All Alone,
In A One Bedroom House
Made Of Plaster And Stone.

I Had Come Down The Chimney
With Presents To Give,
To See Just Who
In This Dwelling Did Live.

I Looked All Around
A Strange Sight To See,
No Tinsel, No Presents,
Not Even A Tree.

No Stocking From The Mantle,
Just Boots Filled With Sand,
On The Wall Hung Pictures
Of Far Distant Lands.

With Medals And Badges,
Awards Of Every Kind,
A Sobering Thought Came Alive In My Mind

This House Was Different,
It Was Dark, It Was Dreary,
I Have Found The Home Of A Soldier,
I Can See That Most Clearly.

[...]

Read the rest of the lyrics while you listen to an absolutely awesome recording here. This is an obvious adaptation of "Merry Christmas, My Friend," which I posted here, but it's very well done. Blackfive has more information here.

If the link I've posted quits working please email me or leave a comment and I'll either locate a new link or make the recording available on my site.

Hat tips: Grim's Hall, Blackfive

{}

Posted by Bill Faith on December 24, 2005 at 08:20 PM in Christmas, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

I can't let the Christmas season pass without re-posting this one. Merry Christmas, Johnny. Ho, Ho, Ho!

The Night Before Christmas (Cambodian Version)

Twas the night before Christmas and we were afloat
Somewhere in Cambodia in our little boat.
While the river was lightened by rockets red glare
No one but the President knew we were there.

The crew was all nestled deep down in their bunks,
While the Spook and I watched the sampans and junks.
Our mission was secret, so secret in fact,
No one else would remember it when we got back.

When out on the water there arose such a clatter
I leaped down from the bridge to see what was the matter.
The incoming friendly was starting to flash
And I knew that the ARVN's were having a bash.

The snap of friendly fire on the warm tropic air
Convinced me for sure no one knew we were there,
On a clandestine mission so secret it's true
That I'm still convinced only Tricky Dick knew.

While I huddled for safety in the tub on the bow,
I thought of a title, "Apocalypse Now."
To give to the films I was I making each day
To show all the voters when I made my big play.

As I sat there sweating in my lucky flight jacket,
Spook said, "Merry Christmas!" and tossed me a packet.
And what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a new lucky cap, which I still have right here.

I keep it tucked here, in this leather brief case,
Just sharing with the press its secretive place
As I regale them again with my senate refrain,
That Christmas in Cambodia is seared into my brain.

Don't bother to quibble with history my friend,
By pointing out Johnson was President then.
Don't listen to Swiftees who try to explain,
For I tell you that night is seared into my brain.

Down Hibbard, down Lonsdale, and you too O'Neill,
So you don't remember? Well it's something I feel.
I don't need all you Swiftvets to support my campaign,
Cause Christmas in Cambodia is seared into my brain,

Into my brain, into my brain, into my brain...

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

Did you get what you wanted, Johnny? You didn't? Awwww! Mommy tried to buy it for you but we were too smart to sell it to her?  What's a poor boy to do, Johnny? You dumb ass! (What, me gloat? Hell, yeah!)

Posted by Bill Faith on December 23, 2005 at 01:15 AM in Christmas, Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

A re-post from last year in case you missed it.

---

Who Brings Santa Presents?

"Mommy, who brings Santa presents?"
(it was his hundredth question of the day)
His little face gazed up solemnly;
She was at a loss for words to say.

She hugged him tight and smoothed his blanket
and thought of Santa and all that flying
’round a world caught up in tragedy,
a world at risk – so many dying.

Yet this unselfish five year old
with Christmas starlight in his eyes
had to think and wonder who
would give Santa his own surprise.

Then carefully she chose her words
so he would understand
how the scope of Santa’s trip
’cross each and every land.

"Your Daddy and men like him, son,
give Santa gifts this night
each time he leaves the North Pole,
they help him plan his flight."

[Read the rest here.]

---

Hat tip: Mrs. Greyhawk

Posted by Bill Faith on December 21, 2005 at 12:45 AM in Christmas, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

(A re-post from last year.)

MERRY CHRISTMAS, MY FRIEND

‘Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one-bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney, with presents to give
and to see just who in this home did live.

As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand.
On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land.

With medals and badges, awards of all kind,
a sobering thought soon came to my mind.
For this house was different, unlike any I’d seen.
This was the home of a U.S. Marine.

I’d heard stories about them, I had to see more,
so I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.
And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.

He seemed so gentle, his face so serene,
Not how I pictured a U.S. Marine.
Was this the hero, of whom I’d just read?
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?

His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan.
I soon understood, this was more than a man.
For I realized the families that I saw that night,
owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight.

Soon around the Nation, the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year,
because of Marines like this one lying here.

I couldn’t help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.
Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye.
I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.

He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice,
“Santa, don’t cry, this life is my choice
I fight for freedom, I don’t ask for more.
My life is my God, my country, my Corps.”

With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep,
I couldn’t control it, I continued to weep.

I watched him for hours, so silent and still.
I noticed he shivered from the cold night’s chill.
So I took off my jacket, the one made of red,
and covered this Marine from his toes to his head.
Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold,
with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold.
And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride,
and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside.

I didn’t want to leave him so quiet in the night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.
But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure,
said “Carry on, Santa, it’s Christmas Day, all secure.”
One look at my watch and I knew he was right,
Merry Christmas my friend, Semper Fi and goodnight.

©1987 by James M. Schmidt

I've seen at least 5 different versions of this poem over the past few years. The above version comes from this page on the IWVPA site.  It appears to be a faithful reproduction of this Leatherneck Magazine version, which Snopes is convinced is the original version. When I emailed a link to Blackfive, he wrote back and told me he's convinced the poem was originally written by an Army Ranger and stolen by the Marines. As I told him, when a Ranger and a Marine disagree this ol' boy stands way back and does not get involved.  Merry Christmas to all of our Warriors. May God bless and keep you.

Hat tip: Mary Ann

Posted by Bill Faith on December 19, 2005 at 01:01 AM in Christmas, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

---

An Angel's Christmas Poem

I am a Soldier’s Angel, God chose me to take care
Of all our men and women, in a world that is not fair

I write them and send packages and pray for safe return
That is my job I’m proud to say, and how much I have learned

This Christmas will be different, most certainly for me
I'll be the Christmas Angel upon my Soldier’s Tree

[Read the rest here.]

---

After you finish reading the poem, wouldn't it be a wonderful time to visit the Soldiers' Angels home page and find out how you can help?

Posted by Bill Faith on December 16, 2005 at 07:11 PM in Christmas, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

This is a re-post from last year; it's still excellent. Thank you Subsunk for reminding me about it (Do read his related post.)

---

A SOLDIER'S CHRISTMAS

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
my daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree, I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep
in perfect contentment, or so it would seem.
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eye when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
and I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

“What are you doing?” I asked without fear
“Come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!”

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts,
to the window that danced with a warm fire’s light
then he sighed and he said “Its really all right,
I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night”

“Its my duty to stand at the front of the line,
that separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at ‘Pearl on a day in December,”
then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas ‘Gram always remembers.”
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘Nam
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red white and blue… an American flag.

“I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home,
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat,
I can carry the weight of killing another
or lay down my life with my sisters and brothers
who stand at the front against any and all,
to insure for all time that this flag will not fall.”

“So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”
“But isn’t there something I can do, at the least,
“Give you money,” I asked, “or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
For being away from your wife and your son.”

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
“Just tell us you love us, and never forget
To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone.
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.

For when we come home, either standing or dead,
to know you remember we fought and we bled
is payment enough, and with that we will trust.
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.”

©Copyright December 07, 2000 by Michael Marks

Author’s Notes:

A Soldier's Christmas was the first in this series of patriotic writings, drafted on Pearl Harbor Day 2000 when in the wake of the 2000 Presidential Election our nation saw the right of US Armed Forces personnel openly questioned and debated. I felt it unconscionable that at the onset of the Christmas season, those serving to defend our nation would hear anything but our love and support. It is our challenge to stand for their rights at home while they stand for our lives and safety overseas. This poem went out and quickly spread around the world in emails, letters, magazines. I received letters from Marines in Bosnia, soldiers in Okinawa, from a submariner who xeroxed a copy for everyone on his sub. Moms wrote, dads, brothers and sisters. I have saved and cherish every letter and set out to continue writing throughout the year.

I was thinking about our servicemen overseas this Holiday Season and wrote the following in hope of bringing a small bit of Christmas cheer to active duty and veterans alike ... just a humble thanks and "God Bless." Please feel free to pass it along or post it as you see fit. Thank you.

Happy Holidays,
Michael Marks

---

Sources: here and here.

Posted by Bill Faith on December 7, 2005 at 05:01 PM in Christmas, Michael_Marks, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

The Hastert Protocol

At last someone has heard our call
We, left behind, we left to fall.
Our views no longer meet the test
Of what is true and right and best.
Was good enough for our father founders,
But not for multicultural bounders,
Who snidely slide us to the side,
Who denigrate and sly deride,
Dismiss us who would celebrate,
Our beliefs, traditions on this date.

So now we’re truly grateful all,
For Speaker Hastert’s Protocol.
Which speaks for those who truly see
That giant spruce as a Christmas tree.
Not a tree for some vague holiday,
But a tree that truly lights our way,
And signifies for us a season,
That makes us ponder, makes us reason,
And recognizes a spiritual nation,
With a founding Christian orientation.

So Speaker Hastert speaks for me
When he says that is a Christmas Tree;
Not a tree for some vague holiday,
But a tree celebrates our Christian way;
A spirit we share ecumenically,
With Jews and Muslims totally,
And others who believe what ‘ere,
There’re beliefs enough for all to share.
We seek nothing more than God’s blessed life,
Sheltered from a world full of natural strife.

So thanks, Mr. Speaker, for your bold call,
We say God bless you, one and all.

Merry Christmas, Russ Vaughn

Posted by Bill Faith on December 3, 2005 at 05:35 PM in Christmas, Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

---

Bastante!

[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.]

Russ Vaughn

---

From President Bush's speech in Tucson this afternoon:

---

... America has always been a compassionate nation that values the newcomer and takes great pride in our immigrant heritage; yet we're also a nation built on the rule of law, and those who enter the country illegally violate the law. The American people should not have to choose between a welcoming society and a lawful society. We can have both at the same time. And to keep the promise of America, we will enforce the laws of our country.  ...

... Illegal immigration puts pressure on our schools and hospitals -- I understand that. I understand it strains the resources needed for law enforcement and emergency services. And the vicious human strugglers -- smugglers and gangs that bring illegal immigrants across the border also bring crime to our neighborhoods and danger to the highways. Illegal immigration is a serious challenge. And our responsibility is clear: We are going to protect the border. ...

... We have a comprehensive strategy to reform our immigration system. We're going to secure the border by catching those who enter illegally, and hardening the border to prevent illegal crossings. We're going to strengthen enforcement of our immigration laws within our country. And together with Congress, we're going to create a temporary worker program that will take pressure off the border, bring workers from out of the shadows, and reject amnesty.

---

George, ol' buddy, I was with you till that point. Any "temporary worker program" that allows those who entered this country illegally to stay is amnesty. First you'll say they can stick around "for a little while,"  then after they have kids on U.S. soil you'll say we can't send them back because their kids are U.S. citizens. Seriously, George, sometimes I wonder if you aren't really as stupid as the democrats say you are. Here's hoping Congress is smarter.

---

... Our strategy for comprehensive immigration reforms begins by securing the border. Now, let me talk to you about a three-part plan. The first part of the plan is to promptly return every illegal entrant we catch at the border, with no exceptions. More than 85 percent of the illegal immigrants we catch are from Mexico, and most of them are escorted back across the border within 24 hours.

To prevent them from trying to cross again, we've launched an interesting program, an innovative approach called interior repatriation. Under this program, many Mexicans caught at the border illegally are flown back to Mexico and then bused to their hometowns in the interior part of the country. By returning these illegal immigrants to their home towns far from the border, we make it more difficult for them to attempt to cross again. Interior repatriation is showing promise in breaking the cycle of illegal immigration.  ...

.... We're going to expand interior repatriation. We want to make it clear that when people violate immigration laws, they're going to be sent home, and they need to stay at home.

---

What they need, George, is jail sentences long enough to make them glad to stay home when the finally get there. Not enough jail space? Put up some tents and string some razor wire somewhere out in the desert.

We face a different set of challenges with non-Mexicans that we -- who we catch crossing the border illegally. When non-Mexican illegal immigrants are apprehended, they are initially detained. The problem is that our detention facilities don't have enough beds. And so, about four of every five non-Mexican illegal immigrants we catch are released in society and asked to return for a court date. When the date arrives, about 75 percent of those released don't show up to the court. As a result, last year, only 30,000 of the 160,000 non-Mexicans caught coming across our southwest border were sent home.

This practice of catch and release has been the government's policy for decades. It is an unwise policy and we're going to end it. To help end catch and release, we need to increase the capacity in our detention facilities. Last month at the White House I signed legislation supported by the members of the Arizona delegation that will increase the number of beds in our detention facilities. We're also working to process illegal immigrants through the system more quickly, so we can return them home faster and free up bed space for others.

One of the most effective tools we have in this effort is a process called expedited removal. Under expedited removal, non-Mexicans are detained and placed into streamlined proceedings. It allows us to deport them at an average of 32 days, almost three times faster than usual. In other words, we're cutting through the bureaucracy. Last year we used expedited removal to deport more than 20,000 non-Mexicans caught entering this country illegally between Tucson and Laredo. This program is so successful that the Secretary has expanded it all up and down the border. This is a straightforward idea. It says, when an illegal immigrant knows they'll be caught and sent home, they're less likely to come to the country. That's the message we're trying to send with expedited removal.

We're also pursuing other common-sense steps to accelerate the deportation process. We're pressing foreign governments to take their citizens back promptly. ...

---

George, did they ask our permission to send their people here to begin with? What to we care if they want them back?

With all these steps, we're delivering justice more effectively, and we're changing the policy from catch and release to the policy of catch and return.

The second part of our plan is to strengthen border -- to strengthen border enforcement is to correct weak and unnecessary provisions in our immigration laws. Under current law, the federal government is required to release people caught crossing our border illegally if their home countries do not take them back in a set period of time. That law doesn't work when it comes time to enforcing the border and it needs to be changed. Those we we're forced to release have included murderers, rapists, child molesters, and other violent criminals. This undermines our border security. It undermines the