The Senator's Song

(c) 2009 Craig Chereek, all rights reserved

I know you’re very busy, I heard it from your aide.

Admir’l, facts trump policy: the facts up here have changed.

Rockslides block the pass and we‘re now elbow-deep in snow,

on this Afghan mountainside with Pakistan below.

The Senator from Warbucks, Inc. arrived today at dawn.

Some agent, sent from Kabul, came, too, with an iPod on.

We are in a pickle, sir, they made too much noise in the pass,

chatter’s up from Pesh’war, and his Bradley’s out of gas.

I am but a Corporal, sir, not twenty-one years old,

raised in Colorado, and I’ve never been this cold.

The Senator says he’s busy, sir, and can’t come to the phone.

He’s sitting in my vehicle, he’s made himself at home.

The Senator came from Khandahar, the Agent came alone -

his camel spits and tests her ropes, some Sheik is on his phone.

The object of the exercise, the reason we are here

is something no-one talks about, we’re here because we’re here.

While I’m on your satellite, and we are in these hills,

where are my B-52’s? My water purification pills?

When the locals ran away the rumor mill did spin:

something to get shot about is blowing in the wind.

The Senator flew from Khandahar, he brought along his aide,

they swap jokes with the Agent, laughing, like they’re not afraid.

that’ll all change soon enough if I don’t get some bombs.

The Devil’s on the ridge and he’s brought some friends along.

I heard it on the radio, the bumper sticker’s, they all say,

“Support Our Troops!” Just politics, or are my bombers on the way?

You have got a Carrier Group while I just have one gun-

a shoeless boy in Pakistan will cherish when I’m gone-

for I cannot save the Senator, I cannot save myself,

unless you send us choppers soon and pull us off this shelf.

We could use some air support, Apache’s would be nice,

or you will see the Senator next when Spring’s thaw melts the ice.

I’d like to kiss my girl again, don’t tell me to relax-

the Taliban are coming with no mercy in their packs.

We’re running out of ammo and we’re running out of time.

If you’re not sending choppers, Admiral, please get off the line,

for I’ve got to tell the Senator, Sir, I doubt he’ll take it well:

some sailor is promoting him to the Senator from Hell.

I know you have your budget and you’re saving up your bombs,

be sure to point that out when you’re consoling all our moms.

I know you-re very busy, sir, I heard it from your aide.

I don’t mean to tell you twice, but things up here have changed.

Rockslides block the pass, we are now chin-strap-deep in snow

in the frozen Hindu-Kush with no place left to go,

on this Afghan mountainside with Pakistan below.