Hunting For Osama

They sit, solidly, on their Cornhusker bar stools,

Facing a great wall of bottles and glass,

Talking and bragging of things from the past,

Toasting the blood, and the heroes, and fools,

Dispersed to dangerous places afar,

With names like Kabul and Qandahar.

The alcohol flows -- mostly cheap lager beer,

Which engorges and cleanses, inspires, inflames,

As the red-necks remember the deeds and the names

Of those, over there, who used to be here...

Putting up hay, riding John Deere,

Chasing their daughters from back-seat to bed...

Then opting for bloody adventure instead,

They've left home to hunt for an evil man,

In the soul-crushing hills of Afghanistan.

There's a point where the guys at the bar take a pause,

The beer-buzz has peaked, but it sure did its job

Of pushing the button, and pulling the knob,

Stoking the feelings and tightening the jaws...

The farmers commune with their boys gone afar,

To the places called Kabul and Qandahar.