Baghdad!
Middle Eastern city.
And the city don’t know what the city will get.
The creme de la creme of the arsenal in a raid with
Everything but Dan Quayle.
Bombs fly! Doesn’t seem a minute since the last one fell
With some nerve gas in it.
No chance! Hop into the shelter
Sitting under fire and your skin begins to swelter
It’s Cambodia; or Vietnam; or Dresden; or… or this place!
Chorus:
Our man in Baghdad
Calls in to Atlanta
Not much between the press and shell debris
We’ll hear his broadcast underneath our gas masks
And if I’m lucky, Scuds won’t fall on me
I can hear an air raid siren close to me
One bomb’s very like another
When your head’s down under the table, brother
It’s a blast! It’s a scream! It’s really quite an big thrill
To be out here in the rubble; we’re examining the last kill
Wait a minute! If you’ve seen one network’s retired
Military commentators…
Skin lice! Open sores! We’re not afraid
Of the mustard gas pustules
Ca-ble! You’re looking at a newsman
Who’s every phrase is out on the tube, man
I get my news *before* the networks, Brokaw!
I don’t see Rather reading the kind of scoops
I’m postulating
I’d give you Pete; I’ll take Wolf Blitzer
And the Times will print «whatever fits her.»
And you better believe that Saddam is watching
…from his bunker
Chorus:
Our Man in Baghdad
Makes the war seem simple
He’s got a platitude for every shot
He’s not afraid of going over budget
And if we’re lucky, the Allies won’t choke
I can smell a story in the acrid smoke
Chorus repeats, and out…