Baghdad! Middle Eastern city. And the city don't know what the city will get. The creme de la creme of the arsenal in a raid with Everything but Dan Quayle. Bombs fly! Doesn't seem a minute since the last one fell With some nerve gas in it. No chance! Hop into the shelter Sitting under fire and your skin begins to swelter It's Cambodia; or Vietnam; or Dresden; or... or this place! Chorus: Our man in Baghdad Calls in to Atlanta Not much between the press and shell debris We'll hear his broadcast underneath our gas masks And if I'm lucky, Scuds won't fall on me I can hear an air raid siren close to me One bomb's very like another When your head's down under the table, brother It's a blast! It's a scream! It's really quite an big thrill To be out here in the rubble; we're examining the last kill Wait a minute! If you've seen one network's retired Military commentators... Skin lice! Open sores! We're not afraid Of the mustard gas pustules Ca-ble! You're looking at a newsman Who's every phrase is out on the tube, man I get my news *before* the networks, Brokaw! I don't see Rather reading the kind of scoops I'm postulating I'd give you Pete; I'll take Wolf Blitzer And the Times will print "whatever fits her." And you better believe that Saddam is watching ...from his bunker Chorus: Our Man in Baghdad Makes the war seem simple He's got a platitude for every shot He's not afraid of going over budget And if we're lucky, the Allies won't choke I can smell a story in the acrid smoke Chorus repeats, and out...
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