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.



Russ Vaughn

2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment

101st Airborne Division

Vietnam 65-66


Iraq War Today