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Discussion Starter #1
'Twas twelve days before Christmas, when all through Iraq
One creature WAS stirring, hiding under a rock;
The styrofoam was hung over the rathole with care,
In hopes the 4th Infrantry wouldn't look there;

Ol' Saddam was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of a comeback danced in his head;
And nestled beside him, in a black briefcase,
Was three quarters of a mil, in bills hard to trace.

When up above him there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the trapdoor he flew like a thistle,
Looked up the rathole and threw down his pistol.

The light from above on his crest-fallen face
Showed his captors that he would give up the chase,
'Cause, what to his weary eyes should appear,
But a US soldier and eight more at the rear.

They saw a cowering rat, who'd been on the lam,
And they knew in a moment it must be Saddam.
More rapid than eagles his curses they came,
And he whimpered, and mumbled, and called them
some names;

"Now, boys don't be hasty! Now, guys, I must mention
you mustn't forget the Geneva Convention!"
Then out of his hole they dragged his sorry butt
And checked him for weapons and searched the hut.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to their headquarters the captors they flew,
With the briefcase full of cash , and Ol' Saddam too.

And then, in a twinkling, they made the ID
There was no mistake: it really was he.
As they peeled off his jacket and checked his tattoos,
FOX NEWS was right there to transmit the good news.

He was dressed like a beggar, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of money he had stashed by his side,
And he looked like a loser who'd lost all his pride.

His cheeks-- how hollow! his head full of hay!
He was definitely having a real Bad-Hair Day!
His smart-a** mouth was drawn up in a sneer,
And he just mumbled: " What're you guys doing here?"

A rat's nest of a beard covered his forlorn face,
And they could tell he'd been running on an eight-month chase;
He had lost some weight but still was quite stocky,
And he trembled in fear and raved in Iraqi.

He was sallow and drawn, an almost pitiful work,
But no one felt sorry for the worthless jerk;
The resignation in his eye and the hang of his head,
Soon gave all to know they had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a truth, but went straight to his lies,
And dodged all the questions; then turned with a sigh,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
Shot the bird to his captors as his cell door closed.

He sank down on his cot, to his guards gave a mutter,
And then sadly begged: "Could I have some supper?".
But I heard him exclaim, as he formed his hands in a prayerful "steeple":
"Praise be to Allah; just don't turn me over to the Iraqi people."

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