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Shut up,
Shut up,
Shut the **** up!

Your mouth must be just another *******,
Because all I hear is **** coming out of it.
You like to **** in the wind,
But get upset when your clothes get wet.

My voice can't raise above my breath,
They want to take it away!
Well you can come and get it,
Because I am going to say what I want to say!

Shut up,
Shut up,
Shut the **** up!
I can't hear myself think,
With your voice in my head!

Who are you to tell me what to do!
We are the many and you are the few!
Francie Lynch Dec 2015
Donald has a comb-over.
******, a funny moustache.
Hair Donald?
Heil ******!
I despise mentioning ******'s name in a poem.
I despise mentioning Donald's name in a poem.
Brent Kincaid Apr 2016
They cry about heaven
Even as they transform skin
Into sin, punishable by death
Or ****, or disfigurement
Sent by the devil for sure
Wearing tonsures and cassocks
Causing their own brand of havoc
Ruled by insensitivity
Because we are the enemy
No longer human, doomed
To suffer the ravages
Of their bad ***** training
And lack of discipline
Over and over again
On playgrounds as kids.

They did it all over again
When in uniform, warmed
By the glow of popular bigotry
Idiocy blessed by some dope,
Some Protestant proto-pope
Who thinks God has time
To engage in crime in his name
So they can blame him instead.
Little else in their head
They steal land, and brand people
Burn people, assault people
And do their best to make them feel
Their god, their way is not real
And is not worth keeping.

Sleeping at night, nobody knows how
Now that they have shown their colors
To their brothers and sisters;
That they will **** mothers and fathers
And babies and the land
And think it just grand
Because they got paid
As they laid waste,
Turned the gardens to paste
Between the toes of evil.
We the boll, they the weevil;
They mashed us under their feet
No thought of being discreet,
We were fodder for their hatriotism.

Not patriotism.
That is impossible
And totally improbable
Once you’ve sold your soul
To Old Nick and his minions,
Hell’s hand-picked denizens
Who look just like your neighbor;
They labor at jobs, like you do
And look a lot like you, too,
Especially if you make excuses
To commit abuses
And blame it on god.
Savor the rod
And abuse the child.
Isn’t hatred wild?
Always on hand.

— The End —