BUSH'S WAR

Old men say it is the measure of a man
That weighs the courage in his heart
Like the price of an orange after the hurricane
It is the young man that comes home
With burned lungs and wild eyes
It is the young woman that didn't come home
They found her in a shallow grave
There was no one in that land so far away
to cry for her or cut their hair
No medal or free tuition for her children
Pays the penalty of our cry and ruined hearts
It is the language of sorrow we all understand
As the grandmother wails, "Why? Why? Why?"
As the father carries his limp staring son
From the dusty rubble that was once their home
It is our own youth taught to torture
Lead the enemy on a leash like a dog
So he learns his place in the New World Order
It is a lie told by the wealthy
As the price of gasoline
Soars beyond my reach