I was born in that tragic year
America slit its own throat.
I've never seen this fairy tale
that you call the land of the free.
All I see is unfettered exploitation
In the name of the green cotton god.
Mad dogs bark and whine
out of two different mouths,
tugging at the leashes
held by porcine fingered monsters
perched high on their thrones
made of slaughtered sheep bones.
But, you had me fooled for so long, America.
I spent five years afloat
supporting your neverending crusade.
If I knew the truth then,
I would have never raised my hand.
How can I support and defend something
with one hand,
and strangle every single word
with my other.
Your a battered woman,
my motherland.
The land of the free?
All I see is an endless train of cattle,
blindly marching towards the abbatoir.
We can all smell the blood on the air,
but, until the hammer crushes our skull
we never consider the reality.
We eat the flesh of our fellows
while waiting in line to die.
Home of the brave?
All I see in every pair of downcast eyes
is the despair of cowardice.
I'd rather starve, all alone,
than lockstep towards the slaughterhouse.
I don't care about the hungry billionaires,
I refuse to be a delicacy
for your flag-slaving masters.
I see the starbursts of incendiary bombs
dropped on civilians,
and the stripes across the backs of countless slaves,
in this flag I once saluted with pride.
Before your hypocrisy finally opened my eyes.
Who are you really, America?
Are you a ghost, or a puppet?
Not really there,
or not what you pretend to be?
An eagle with clipped wings,
or a temple caught on fire?
Tell me please, I must know
why you have turned everyone I love
into a pathological liar?
If I turn my back
and walk away from you
will you even wave goodbye?
Do you ever cry, America?
Cry, like the beloved starlet,
who first notices the wrinkles
forming around her sparkling eyes,
like cracks in the foundation
that has covered up the truth
of her lined and blemished face.
Do you ever feel afraid, America,
that these may be your final days?
Or are you resigned to your fate
like your pathetic fawning children
are resigned to being psuedo-slaves.
Were you ever really the illusion,
or have you always been this way?
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC
I was born in that tragic year
America slit its own throat.
I've never seen this fairy tale
that you call the land of the free.
All I see is unfettered exploitation
In the name of the green cotton god.
Mad dogs bark and whine
out of two different mouths,
tugging at the leashes
held by porcine fingered monsters
perched high on their thrones
made of slaughtered sheep bones.
But, you had me fooled for so long, America.
I spent five years afloat
supporting your neverending crusade.
If I knew the truth then,
I would have never raised my hand.
How can I support and defend something
with one hand,
and strangle every single word
with my other.
Your a battered woman,
my motherland.
The land of the free?
All I see is an endless train of cattle,
blindly marching towards the abbatoir.
We can all smell the blood on the air,
but, until the hammer crushes our skull
we never consider the reality.
We eat the flesh of our fellows
while waiting in line to die.
Home of the brave?
All I see in every pair of downcast eyes
is the despair of cowardice.
I'd rather starve, all alone,
than lockstep towards the slaughterhouse.
I don't care about the hungry billionaires,
I refuse to be a delicacy
for your flag-slaving masters.
I see the starbursts of incendiary bombs
dropped on civilians,
and the stripes across the backs of countless slaves,
in this flag I once saluted with pride.
Before your hypocrisy finally opened my eyes.
Who are you really, America?
Are you a ghost, or a puppet?
Not really there,
or not what you pretend to be?
An eagle with clipped wings,
or a temple caught on fire?
Tell me please, I must know
why you have turned everyone I love
into a pathological liar?
If I turn my back
and walk away from you
will you even wave goodbye?
Do you ever cry, America?
Cry, like the beloved starlet,
who first notices the wrinkles
forming around her sparkling eyes,
like cracks in the foundation
that has covered up the truth
of her lined and blemished face.
Do you ever feel afraid, America,
that these may be your final days?
Or are you resigned to your fate
like your pathetic fawning children
are resigned to being psuedo-slaves.
Were you ever really the illusion,
or have you always been this way?
Take a knee
