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.

One thought on “Dis-America

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