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Here's to each neocon brunch. Ev'rybody groan. Hatching war plans based on some idiot's hunch we hoped they'd disown. Eliciting spies, Embellishing claims fitting their aims, Knowing they're lies. Here's to the victims they choose, Peasants under glass, Thinking they know who's most likely to lose and please the top brass. Loving their wars, But how will they raise a hundred billion dollars? A Cheney phrase, more Kenny Lays, they'll find the public hollers. Here's to the brunch that begets more terror and strife, Tasty baguettes, nimble nymphets, Chubby coquettes, rigid mind-sets, The neocon life. Who'd drink to all that?
Music by Stephen Sondheim |