I'm sitting here at the McDonald's on Guantanamo.
I'm not sure if this letter will make it, or that I'll send it
but I wanted to write this out for a while now.
Yeah so, we had him in the cold, chained to the floor. Haha.
We had a hood on his head,
and then we beat him some more.
All this torture, and I just went along.
From behind this Cactus Curtain
I'm not sure whose side we're on.
At least war crimes qualify me for
a decent job at the Pentagon.
We were drunk, singing Guantanamera,
holding in our laughs
during the mock executions;
Retribution, we said.
Laughing as we pissed on the Quran in his hand,
laughing like hell as we ripped off his pants,
Nine hundred and eleven ways to die without a trace
we rubbed his face in the particulars
and I heard him as he wept alone
A sudden pang of conscience
as I destroyed interrogation logs.
Will these war crimes qualify me for
a discharge or just a disorder?
I've been longing for
Sundays sitting in church
back in East Tennessee.
"Infidels," we joked.
But now what's haunting my dreams
are all the ghost detainees.
I know that Uncle Mark's probably calling me pussy now.
I got the black-site blues and cold feet...
he'd say pull out all his teeth, and drown all his children
a watery grave down in the Caribbean
but we were arming these guys when they was Mujahideen.
Like we gave two shits about New York before,
singing "send me to hell or New York City"
Momma, I don't care no more.