Tune of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen (G minor)
There was a pilot, name was Bob,
He went to work each day.
He loved to play his video.
Nevada was his base.
He steered his drones from far away,
and missiles he did guide,
and his Hellfire struck its target
half a world away,
but with aim astray,
a wedding he did slay.
When Bob went home, his shift was done,
His seat belt he did wear.
He kissed the wife and hugged the kids.
Bob asked: "How was your day?"
The fam was fine, but he had killed,
dead bodies torn to shreds;
For his Hellfire struck its target
half a world away,
but with aim astray,
a wedding he did slay.
Bob's double life was hard to take.
He got P T S D.
The Air Force kicked him off the job,
but they refused to pay.
When pre-existing it was deemed,
the streets became his home;
For his Hellfire struck its target
half a world away,
but with aim astray,
a wedding he did slay.
Forget our Bob, for he is dead.
His wife on food stamps lives.
His kids in prison, how they rot
for dealing crack cocaine.
As he flew Reapers through the blue,
their future he would dash;
For his Hellfire struck its target
half a world away,
but with aim astray,
a wedding he did slay.
Spiritu'l death is what once
Martin Luther King this called:
Resources we drain for those bombs
that no one can afford.
While social uplift goes to pot,
war profiteers we feast.
And our Hellfire strikes its targets
half a world away,
but with aim astray,
more weddings we shall slay.