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Array
(
[sid] => 147307
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Ballad for Sgnt. Bob
[time] => 2009-01-07 19:23:00
[hometext] => Thank you Mr. Dylan the schema seemed appropriate
[bodytext] => Ballad for Sgnt. Bob Hey Mr spam-marine man Make a sandwich for me. I'm fond of cheese and pickles, but alfalfa bothers me. There he goes now, wheel about Such savouir faire and dollar clout Don't be spare with your katchup, Or your Mayonaise. Hey, Mr hambone-lean man So strikes the hand of chance Your foe explodes, Skull pulverized as you soil your pants. You'll know whom I'm talking about When I tell you his full name. Renowned throughout the cities That have felt his hand of shame. He loves Linguini and his shining Lamborgini's He rap-sodises well. And the nations doing swell For his weenies. Pin stripe suits and golden braides. All guess works Is a pantomime aparthied and His road blockades. His eyes, they don't dart about They are laser like too shoot. He's well dressed, there he goes now Its Jesus, in his Jackboots. Hey Mr Sham Machine man I know your armour is thick It's pretty and its Heavy But it ain't golden brick. Seen him at the country fair At the bank, Or in his frog like tank. There he goes! Now Its Jesus in his Jackboots Prison has three meals square But it ain't no grand affair Naked need is, pajama games and the Whip will crack. Crucify the son of man Nail him to a garbage can. A pretty picture, rotting rude. A fine spun cloth in boots, but nude. Watch closely through the dark As he goose steps through the park The little clerk he loves His dreams of, avarice. Feathers fly For he's our guy A fife, a drum, and tune All continents too bestride, at high noon. Every dog shall have his bone And every cat his ice cream cone Says the seargant, thats Jesus, in his Jackboots. And if I see you some fine day Taking lots of flack. Remember these are your streets So watch your back. The western setting sun Silloettes his smokin gun As he's crucified in basements And in his gun enplacements. All of this, with gas mask at hip, And a scowl upon his lips. Music in his ear, Feel the beat of his fear. No, we never thought he'd shoot. As we marched that golden route Not as Dorothy, but pilgrams for For Jesus, in jackboots. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 161 [topic] => 64 [informant] => incognito_bombastus [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => ambiguous )
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