"History doesn't repeat itself...but it does rhyme." -Mark Twain*

Oh, America!

You didn’t stand a chance.

What, with a Mother so gluttonous
that the sun never set on her,

With a Father so shameless
that his name became synonymous with guilt,

The prodigal sheep
couldn’t stray too far.

In New World tantrums
you brewed Earl Grey bays,

You built your houses
on foundations of graves,

You pursued your happiness
through the sweat of slaves,

Behind white-picket fences
you dreamt away decades…

And then you were stirred,
by a bird through your window,
to find no one at your wake.