Death Ode to an iPod

Poor little iPod. Faithful servant; you finally died.
No tunes to jam by or any music for the ride.
Sixty gigs of memory, you had a lot of stuff.
You traveled the world with me to places generally rough.
 
You kept me company in ole' Douchebagistan,
as I charged you with solar cells and cooled you down with fans.
Or hooked you up to the laptop in Iraq,
or the time I left you during that fucking mortar attack.
 
I've had you in shitholes where things weren't so nice.
Or when we partied in Dubai with women, drinks and ice.
We froze together out on the Khyber Pass,
as you kept entertaining my frostbitten ass.
 
Or the time we drove with the diplomat from DoD?
That weak moron shit that persistently had to pee?
You played many things and many a mellow track...
translators now sing Sinatra tunes deep in Iraq.
 
With sunglasses on and shemaghs worn on our gear,
you brought us to the Green Zone where we always had a beer.
The whole team loved you as we traveled about,
no malfunctions nor anything to pout.
 
Remember that time we went someplace classified?
Working for the Bear where we damn near died?
You were strapped on my MOLLE vest along with my gear,
but now you're home and stopped working I fear.
 
With earbuds in or those glasses to watch...
those pornos we uploaded into those movie slots.
I've watched a lot of pornos on that little, teeny screen,
and strapped you in that Pelican case that I painted tan & green.
 
From New York to London then Paris to Rome,
you kept me entertained when I was far from home.
I kept you pristine in a protective case,
you were beloved like a priceless Ming vase.
 
I downloaded Farsi lessons in the weekly podcast,
and played you with my iHome when I was getting some ass.
Remember those days out in Kandahar?
When I was in the hospital instead of a bar?
 
We were separated after the IED attack.
You were in the gun truck strapped onto my pack.
I caught shrapnel to my leg, chest and cheek.
Those were the days when it was all so bleak.
 
While the bullets still rained at us from a chattering PKM...
someone shouted "Contact Right!" and the team shot at them.
My laptop was shot up but you survived the day.
As I was airlifted by dust-off, up high and away.
 
It was nice of the guys to fly you back to me,
and once in hand I was filled with glee.
Or that big-boobed nurse that was nice enough to share,
the music that you played when I worked for the Bear.
 
I miss you my friend, you made me smile a lot.
Through nights when we froze, and when it was just fucking hot.
Though you're just a product, you will still be missed.
The day that you stopped working; Fuck! I was pissed.