Americans won't be competing for the World Cup anymore.
The boys from Belgium sent them right out the door.
The red, white, and blue, were done in by the red, yellow, and black.
The Belgians sported a very potent offensive attack.
Yes, the final score was Belgium 4, USA 1.
The home grown guys were certainly undone.
Some American soccer fans may be shedding tears.
Their team has to wait for another four years.
We see in the country, in Portsall,
things that you don’t see in the city,
A pastry chef who smiles kindly,
A farmer who parks his tractor on the side,
We see polite people like Belgians,
People listening to the bees work,
Trees are seen learning to count,
Churches that ring the morning hours,
We see beautiful things in the country,
Things that you don’t see in the city,
People saying hello to you at the bakery,
People watching the snails think,
You see people looking at you like birds,
Writers wearing pink hats,
Who drank tequila with their chicken breast,
Houses where people will be nice,
We see in the country, on the side of Portsall
Things that you don’t see in the city,
The city often I fear, makes people evil,
We see large houses painted pink or yellow
Which make you think of Sicily or Tuscany.
It was the twenty fourth of December nineteen fourteen.
Troops were English, French & Belgians, a bloody war was the scene.
A sound was coming from the German enemy line.
German soldiers were approaching on that day and singing in voices fine.
A cry of “Merry Christmas” from the German solders who were advancing quick.
They all looked so jovial, it didn’t seem to be a trick.
For a short time, all were comrades not one bit afraid for their lives at all.
There was laughing and joking, and they all joined in singing by night fall.
Seemed all men were the same, didn’t matter which uniform they wore.
How extraordinary, enemies singing together a carol in the middle of a war.
By morning gifts of cake, smokes and clothes were exchanged by each side.
A truce that should be an example of what we humans really have inside.
A true show, that men aren’t killing machines, everyone, a husband or a son.
A true Christmas Miracle from the bloody chapters of World War One.
Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
It gives me full of pep,
Yellows, walleye, salty,
I will eat hot fries.
Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
Belgians, sweet flamingos,
Walloon girls, redheaded girls,
Out of the oven, all hot.
Eating fries is not stupid
English, golden, or Norwegian,
The fries it gives a hell of a peach
Tomorrow, Marion, give me the fries.
Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Ça me donne voyons, une sacrée frite,
Des jaunes, des dorées, des salées,
Je mangerai des frites chaudes, moi.
Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Des belges, des flamandes douces,
Des wallonnes, des filles rousses,
Sorties du four, toutes chaudes.
Manger des frites, ce n’est pas bête
Anglaises, dorées, ou norvégiennes,
Les frites ça donne une sacrée pêche
Demain, Marion, tu me donnes la frite.
The Belgian masters of old
gave in to the Devil's wish.
Offering Tutsi blood to
fill the Hutu tribal dish.
Innocence hacked asunder,
within the shadow of fear.
The streets, soaked in crimson blood,
yet the world shed not a tear.
The presence of God's church was
absent from the bloody scene.
Outside of reality:
cloistered lives, remained serene.
While the victims were voiceless,
slaughter grew to genocide.
And, very little was done;
their massacre; swept aside.
The U.N. let the Belgians
sneak away and dodge the blame,
And Roméo Dallaire was placed
in charge; to deal with their shame.
Forced to witness the torture
and defilement of victims.
Roméo's hands were tightly tied,
by Canada's strict dictums.
The sheer weight of Rwanda's pain
weighed heavily on his soul.
And he wrote a book about
lives, hate buried in a hole.
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