The President’s Brain is Missing

The congressman’s son is missing,
he’s flown without his plane.
Grown tired of taking orders,
he won’t be seen again
at this national air guard unit
best known for its champagne.
The congressman’s son is missing,
but praise him, just the same.

The president’s son is missing.
Oh, where can that boy be?
A shareholding director
at Harken Energy
Cashed out lock, stock, and barrel,
before it fell to three.
Now the president’s son is missing
from the docket at the SEC.

The candidate’s votes are missing,
we’ve got to find him more.
Too late to call the faithful
or canvass door to door.
We’ll trust in our chief justice
to even up the score.
Now the candidate’s votes are missing,
but he takes it, five to four.

The president’s brain is missing,
there’s space behind his eyes.
A fortified compartment with room enough inside
for Wolfowitz, Perle, and Cheney,
and Rumsfeld to reside
but the president’s brain is missing
the president’s brain is missing
the president’s brain is missing,
on this you can rely.

Red, Gold and Green

Red, gold and green
Colors I’ve seen posted on the wall
with coffin nails

Red, gold and green
Caught in-between horizontal bars
and fairy tales

Like the blood of the motherland, they’d say
Golden as sunlight in paradise
Like the color our fathers wore the day
they gave the legion their lives

Red, gold and green
Just seventeen and you’re signed aboard
and setting sail

Red, gold and green
War’s great machine takes you by the arm
and bleeds you pale

It’s the blood of the fatherland you shed
for all the gold, for all the guns
It’s the color they roll over the dead
when they sow the earth with their sons

So long, homeboy
Your name on that marble wall
Banners waving at you
We’re behind you all the way, boy
Way out behind you

Beautiful Grid

Oh, oh-oh
You can do the job if you insist, insist
I will tie the loose strings on my bib, my bib
How I love to be with you at night, I like
Now we go for walkies on the nice, clean grid
and on the streets

Oh, oh-oh
It’s clothes that make the man all that he is, he is
It’s clothes that make the man, or it’s his shoes, his shoes
How I love to be with you at night, I like
These shoes were made for walkies on the nice, clean grid
And on the streets, I follow you
You can lead on the beautiful grid

Oh, oh-oh
You will do the cleaning while I lie, lie low
You dub me in while drinking from a glass, I laugh
How I love to be with you at night, I like
Now you knock on doors on my behalf

You and I are a team
We’re of one mind and one half
We will walk on the beautiful grid
And be inspired by the themes that we pull from the sky
and on the streets
By and by, you will lend me
all I need to get by

Grandfather’s War

War is statistical, death euphemistical
There’ve been some changes made
Back in the summer of 1914 it seemed like a big parade
Father’s father always knew just what he was fighting for
It would be so much more noble a thing
to be killed in my grandfather’s war

I’ll never figure out why they all rant about
winning the hearts and minds
Grandfather’s generals were never in need
of public relations blinds
If they simply won’t give in, just murder a million more
Extermination was nothing to hide
in the days of my grand-daddy’s war

He had some glorious tales to tell of the days
when martial values were always in style
They would sing as they marched, and always would face
the murderous Hun with a smile

After the armistice grandfather told of this
friend he made at the Somme
who one day machine-gunned some great wooden thing
that looked like his neighbor’s home
Grandpa’s friend killed 14 men before he got through the door
They became 14 more glorious names
in the annals of military lore
And I know it would be so much more noble a thing
to be killed in my grandfather’s war

All songs © 2004 by Matthew & Joseph Perry