The Death of the Flat Rachael Corrie

I'm not sure that a ballad works as a parody, from a humor standpoint, but this did turn out rather nicely. It's of course based on The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, by Gordon Lightfoot

The legend lives on from Palestinians on down
Of the big thing they call a ‘bulldozer’
The dozer, it’s said, always flattens its dead
When the left wing protesters turn looney.

With a carbon steel frame sixty-two metric tons more
Than the flat Rachael Corrie weighed empty.
The blade it is true is a thing to be feared
When the treads of the dozer start rolling.

The Cat was the pride of the Israeli side
Coming back from some hill in the Gaza
As the big dozers go, it was bigger than most
With a diesel of four hundred horses

Concluding some berms with a couple of quick turns
When they left fully fueled up for Rafah
When later that day her megaphone sang
Could it be that dumb bitch they was hearin’?

The dirt in the treads made a tattle-tale sound
As the mud broke over the blading
And every man knew, as miss Corrie did too,
T’was a big Caterpillar come dozin’.

The blade came down and the dumb twit stood her ground
When the D9 bulldozer came plowin’.
Devoid of good sense and ignoring all risk
She turned her back on the oncoming dozer.

When it finally came, the dumb bitch kept her place sayin’
Surely, they’ll stop what they’re doing.
Under the tread her air pathway caved in, she said
Dammit, this shouldn’t have happened!

Her friends called in that the blonde bitch was down,
And the bomb laden house was in peril.
And later that day when her lights went outta sight
Came the death of the flat Rachael Corrie.

Does any one know where the sense of libs go
When the blade turns the minutes to hours?
The soldiers all say she’d have got out okay
If she’d put fifteen more feet behind her.

She might have been crushed or she might have split wide;
May have broke ribs and her bladder.
And all that remains is the traces and the stains
Of her imprint, the tread tracks and splatter.

Arafat stews, Hizbollah spews
From the rooms of their compounds in Gaza.
The ISM screams like a spoiled preteen
They voice their support for the terror.

And don’t we all know, when the buses explode
They’ll march out their apologists willing,
Now activists go as the drivers all know
With the big caterpillars remembered.

In a musty old room in Ramallah they prayed,
In the ISM office of terror.
The door bell chimed till it rang seventy-two times
For each tread on the big Caterpiller.

The legend lives on from Palestinians on down
Of the big thing they call a ’bulldozer’.
The dozer, they said, always flattens its dead
When left wing protestors turn looney!