By: al1974

al1974 — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 01:50:28 +0000

In Afghanistan, a black tulip,
C in a glass of vodka, we sail silently over the land
Groznaya bird across the border
By Russian lightning is our brothers home.
In the black tulip those with jobs
They’re coming home dear land to lie.
In indefinite leave, torn to shreds,
And never, never warm to hug the shoulders.
When the oases Dzhellalabada
fallen down on the wing, tulip our fallen.
We cursed all his work.
Again the boy summed up the loss company
In Shindand, Kandahar and Bagram
Again, per capita put a heavy stone
Again carry home the heroes
Which is 20 years of digging graves
Which is 20 years of digging graves
But you have to get up, must come
If you break, you can run up and then
Bullets fly, Stinger flies
If you break, you guys die a second time
And we are not like home
Where are all for us long ago familiar
Where are the corpses they see once a year, pilots,
Where the clouds are not chopping down helicopters
And we go, gritting his teeth with rage
Dry vodka wetting his lips
They come from Pakistan caravans
And, therefore, have a job for “tulip”
And, therefore, have a job for “tulip

Comments on: Was the U.S. Intelligence Community Aware of Attempts by Major Nidal Hasan to Contact al Qaeda?

By: al1974