GHOST OBAMA: The Way of The Samurai (It's WAR, Young Ward Heeler! RAISE YR SWORD!)

[Leopolds Ghost]

In Honor Of the Pennsylvania Primaries... and by request...

Note: I added the section in the middle
in bold, which is written by me, new to this topical version.

The reference to the bear-hunting scene in the woods of New Jersey
was too strong to resist. Let me know what you think of my lyrics.

The rest is a slightly re-worded version of the end credits song from
Ghost Dog: The Way of The Samurai, an excellent film by Jim Jarmusch.

(one of those latte sipping liberals, for those of you who've never
heard of this movie.)

Apologies to RZA from Wu Tang Clan.

The original is called Samurai Showdown.

Listen to the original song: Youtube Link (sing along!)

Yo, it's a --

Primary showdown
Primary showdown...!!



(Aight, D.L.C.) How dare you challenge me?

You will die from the tip of my ballot today!

Huh, the trenches, we must remain calm --
Right, prepare to vote

***Chorus:***

It's War, young Ward-heelers! raise your swords!
It's War, young Ward-heelers! raise your swords!

Yo, yo

Hailin from the slums of Hawaii, golden talent, Salon.com twirl
And one swirl, of the fatal word splits your voting block

Wu Tang Obama Bees' bloggin, back on the swarm again

BZZZZZZ, the alarm again, six direction question deflectin'
Stingin accusations connect like opposite sides of magnets

Hangin Chad fragments bein chipped off by a slingin sword slash,
With the force of big crash in your dash board with no airbag!

He drove a beat-up old Jag-uar

Round south-central Chicago
But now he besieges her fortress at Wilkes-Bar-ra

In a deluxe Winnebago

Makin whistle-stops, orderin' cafe americano

At Dunkin' Donuts,
poll numbers droppin' like a pair
of you-know-whats

They say, "ain't too many black f---s left" out here
In the Deer Hunter turf, territory of fear

So when you see one, you take pot shots
In ancient cultures, man was equal to the bear!

Trained in the Orient, he ain't in Kansas anymore
Taste the bitterness on your throat, clingin' toward

the things you hold dear!

***Chorus***

It's war, war, young Ward-heelers! raise your swords!
It's war, war, young Ward-heelers! raise your swords!

Time for every runner-up to go accord'...

Quick to pick a running mate, down a shot
Respect the Bloods an' working class whites a lot

Plus the God from Wright saggin in his seat, blastin Wu beats
Tryin to plot her next hit piece

He took a drag of the eight elements that composed, atmospheric gas
'Bout to let off his oratory, and full blast

Kept his mind focused, meditation position half lotus
Super Stephanopoulos novas couldn't match his magnum opus

Deluxe stroke, son, move like a ghost --

Struck in an instant, his opponent -- unnoticed like a lamp post!

Radar sharp precision youtube clip, explode

Till his clips unload

it's the samurai code!!

***Chorus***

It's war, war, young Ward-heelers! raise your swords!
It's war, war, young Ward-heelers! raise your swords!

Time for every runner-up to go accord'...

Crept in silent, the Steel wind
Media silencers screwed up tight
kept the hit pieces just sealed in

We attack, full fledge
with Chicago University red
bandanas tied tight around our heads!

Swing with the force of a sledge
Single-edge stainless steel rebuttal chopped the wedge
issue-- oriented this analog mic talkin head

Who even thought that
he could go against Rev. Wright
and the Weathermen fall back?

From the will of Allah, you'll be facin the firing squad
of a thousand chain e-mails out to mark ya

The suit jacket scully king brush off dirt like jelly beans
Superdelegates in my nest restin up, on the telly scene

Murderous Bush right-track to me, is ego felony
Can't accept what you a.m. radio cats be tellin me

I get the verbal weapon, won't hesitate for one second
to break your back like Big Dog Bill Clinton

***Chorus***

It's war, war, young Ward-heelers! raise your swords!
It's war, war, young Ward-heelers! raise your swords!

Time for every runner-up to go accord'...



:smoke: :hi: