I'm in Texas, hardly a precinct of Paradise,
Holed up, holding off hosts of assailants,
Bikers and half-wits with flags, cracker
Patriots, families of tourists with money
To burn on some Chinese-made totems
Of Hollywood fantasies:  horsemen
And whores, sturdy killers of Indians.
“Leave me alone,” I think, my frontier
Fantasy, after I've finished the breakfast
I bought, and I search for a place to get
Gas to return to my cabin, made up to seem
Made out of logs.  There's no getting away,
Anymore, I have learned, and nowhere,
Not home, surely not here in Texas,
Which properly could be called
Paradise.