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R. Firefly

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Clearwater, FL, US

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The Afghan Lottery Blues

by

R. Firefly

Twenty-five million smakeroos,
sufficient sum to buy some shoes,
or grab two-hundred red baloons,
or rent one-hundred Loony Toons,
or dress in silks up to my craw,
or build a hut with mud and straw,
or have a barber trim my stash,
I could do all that with cash,
or stock a cupboard for my mama,
if I can finger you Osama.

Please Osama, don't go far,
cause I could use a brand new car.
My donkey's dead, I'm going to bed,
I've got the Afghan Lottery Blues.

Twenty-five big ones would be rad,
I'd be the finest dude in Jalalabad.
With all that dough, I'd learn to write,
and add, to make me erudite,
cause ducking bullets ain't my glory,
but loot like that's another story,
so even though my comrades scoff,
I'll dust off my Kalashnikov,
and stalk and search cause I can't save.
I'll strike it rich inside your cave.

Please Osama, dont't go far,
cause I could use a brand new car.
My donkey's dead, I'm going to bed,
I've got the Afghan Lottery Blues.

And with these visions in my head,
enough to get me up from bed,
fermented mare's milk in my pot,
will get me charging from my spot,
and when the prize is in my trunk,
and all my pals deny this bunk,
and claim I can't affor a ticket,
to help me with my sticky-wicket,
I'll tell them when I found that man,
the doo-doo hit the Talifan.

So please Osama, don't go far,
cause I could use a brand new car.
My donkey's dead, I'm dreaming instead,
I've got the Afghan Lottery Blues.