David Hines (hradzka) wrote,
David Hines
hradzka

APED: "clean hands"

David does Phil Ochs. The refrain of "it sure wasn't our fault" in this not meant to be ironic. The fact that something monstrous will not be our fault, however, does not make it okay. I'm profoundly discomfited by the fact that there are prominent people (*coughcough*AndrewSullivan*coughcough*) rooting for the Iranian protestors who didn't seem to really realize that yes, mass slaughter is one potential ending of all this. Maybe that'll change after today. The fact that we actually had planned on having Iranian diplomats coming over to our embassies for the July 4th parties in the middle of this upheaval rather boggled me, too. At least the President rescinded that invitation after the militias went into Baharestan Square swinging axes. (I actually wrote this yesterday, then found it too bleak and bitter. Sometimes bleak and bitter is called for, though.)

I'm going to step off the soapbox and away from current-events poems/song lyrics for a bit after this one, I think.


They're brewing a new revolution,
or something that's like it, at least,
and we get to watch it unfold on our phones,
and laptops and high-def TVs.
We're cheering 'em on,
and we're wishing the best,
and yeah, we're helping out in our way.
And when they're all crushed, we'll feel really sad
when we shake hands with the killers next day.

And they get to do all the dying,
and it's their plowed-up ground sown with salt,
where the spent cartridges and the bodies are lying
but hey, man, it wasn't our fault.
Yeah, at least it sure wasn't our fault.

And when you get right down to it
It's their fight to win or to lose.
Let them do their part, and we will do ours
and watch every bit on the news.
We'll see the arrests,
and we'll see people shot,
and the streets'll run red in the end.
We'll shed us some tears, and when the killing's all done,
we'll sit down with the killers again.

Yeah, we'll stand right on up till the moment we leave,
and we'll cheer till they die, and then we'll all grieve
and we'll shake the steel hand that's got blood on its sleeve --
but it wasn't our fault, no, it wasn't our fault.

And yeah, we'll be sad when they die.
We'll remember how they made us feel.
And how we feel matters, because, after all,
it isn't as if they were real.
And we'll keep on the course,
and we'll take the high road
for sometimes you shouldn't make waves.
We won't bring it up, and we won't change our tack,
and we won't ever visit their graves.

But our hands'll be clean, though they did what they did
and our stains are all darker, and deeper, and hid,
and to look back and question we'll bar and forbid
and it wasn't our fault, no it wasn't our fault.

And they get to do all the dying,
and it's their plowed-up ground sown with salt,
where the spent cartridges and the bodies are lying
but hey, man, it wasn't our fault.
yeah, at least it sure wasn't our fault.
So let's go out for ice cream, and let's play us some golf,
'cause hey, man, it wasn't our fault.
(hey, nice to see ya, pass me a hot dog!)
no, it sure wasn't our fault.
Tags: a poem every day
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