They say that Rachel Corie had a perpetual frown,
With political connections to keep herself around.
Born into society, a crimson diaper child,
She had everything a man could want: bombast, face, and style.
But I make bombs in a factory
And I curse the life I’m living
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be
Rachel Corie.
The papers print her picture almost everywhere; she shows:
Rachel Corie at the IHOP, Richard Cory at a show.
And the rumor of the parties and the orgies where she’s not!
Oh, she surely can’t be happy lost in Ghaza and forgot.
But I make bombs in a factory
And I curse the life I’m living
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be
Rachel Corie.
She freely gave to charity, she had the common touch,
And they were grateful for her patronage and thanked her very much,
So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read:
“Rachel Corie sat down today and got flattened and is dead.”
But I make bombs in a factory
And I curse the life I’m living
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be
Rachel Corie.
Next.
Very nice.