Tune of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen (G minor)
There _was_ a pilot, _name_ was Bob,
He _went_ to work each _day._
He _loved_ to play his _vi_deo.
Ne_va_da was his _base._
He _steered_ his drones from _far_ away,
and _mis_siles he did _guide,_
and his _Hell_fire _struck_ its target
_half_ a world a_way,_
but with _aim_ astray,
a _wed_ding he did _slay._
When _Bob_ went home, his _shift_ was done,
His _seat_ belt he did _wear._
He _kiss_ed the wife and _hugg_ed the kids.
Bob _asked:_ "How was your _day?"_
The _fam_ was fine, but _he_ had killed,
dead _bo_dies torn to _shreds;_
For his _Hell_fire _struck_ its target
_half_ a world a_way,_
but with _aim_ astray,
a _wed_ding he did _slay_.
Bob's _double_ life was _hard_ to take.
He _got_ P T S _D._
The _Air_ Force kicked him _off_ the job,
but _they_ refused to _pay._
When _pre-_existing _it_ was deemed,
the _streets_ became his _home;_
For his _Hell_fire _struck_ its target
_half_ a world a_way,_
but with _aim_ astray,
a _wed_ding he did _slay._
For_get_ our Bob, for _he_ is dead.
His _wife_ on food stamps _lives._
His _kids_ in prison, _how_ they rot
for _deal_ing crack co_caine._
As _he_ flew Reapers _through_ the blue,
their _fu_ture he would _dash;_
For his _Hell_fire _struck_ its target
_half_ a world a_way,_
but with _aim_ astray,
a _wed_ding he did _slay._
Spi_rit_u'l death is _what_ once
Martin _Luth_er King this _called:_
Re_sour_ces we drain _for_ those bombs
that _no_ one can af_ford._
While _so_cial uplift _goes_ to pot,
war _prof_iteers we _feast._
And our _Hell_fire _strikes_ its targets
_half_ a world a_way,_
but with _aim_ astray,
more _wed_dings we shall slay.