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Freeing Iraq, or Diverting America? (poem)

By Horace Coleman

Patriotism? They say it; you pay it.
Although ending up in a body bag,
even under a new flag, doesn't
make your sad folks brag. But
you do more than some Jody Grinder
sitting in a sports bar, keeping score.

You're riding a Humvee in misery.
Looking over your shoulder,
trying to get older, as
politicians and schemers think
they're tougher and bolder.

Not under SandLand stars, faded folks
fly faded flags on cars. As heroes
pull triggers on shadowy figures,
CEOs stretch their checks
by a few more zeros.
They never answered the call—
or had a homecoming stalled.

When you signed up, you gave up choice—
and voice—but not your mind.
The "real" patriots "support our troops"
by ignoring the bureaucratic hoops and
red-tape loops you must escape and evade.

So you ask this:
To get some armor for my body,
it's my family I have to lobby?

The stay-at-homes' smarts
went on loan with their hearts
as they okayed another war's start:
"We're #1!" and second to none—
at jiving ourselves.
The WWE will set who free?
John Q & Jane Public?
No law can make those patriots act.

You do more. They just snored, ignored
the body count, lazily rooted for the
home team, chased overpriced dreams.

For them, life's a spectator sport played
on someone else's court. They shop
—while you drop.

As busy camouflaged elves dust
the nation's overseas shelves,
The Grand REMF has plans
needing fresh flesh fertilizer
and more blood on more sands.

So you duck RPGs, snipers and IEDs.
Please, it's no big thing.
It's just you in the ring,
slouching toward Bethlehem.
You know, putting on a reality show
as mall rats—and Washington brats—
flick their clickers quicker.

It's such an easy war—
let's have some more and
24/7, send 'em to heaven.
Take over, make over, do over.
And armchair warriors,
safe in their think tanks,
don't even say thanks
to those in the ranks.

—Horace Coleman