I do not pretend to dis-like America
Scattered bumblebees lost in a field of flowers
Dis-illusioned in the hope that I get mine
Since you may not dis-serve yours.
I am not the socialist, dis-abled from work
I’ll get my hands dirtied, they have been already
From the garbage that spills from the lips
Of all the talking heads, pontificating crap.
Don’t mind me as I won’t pray for you
You’ll find that there are gods and prayers
On the other side, what does it matter any way,
Only the coats they wear are a different color.
The blood spilled is still red, the gray matter,
Dis-charged from what we call a thinking thing
Just thought its last thought, before the bullet hit
It all looks the same in the sand or on the beach.
Or maybe we can all stand by, like a test picture
Waiting for the hum to die down
Closing our ears to the dis-tant drums beating
One last call for alcohol, I’ll take mine neat.