They'll come for you, their minions will.
They'll wrench you from your husband
And your children. You'll be pushed onto
A plane because you dared to point
Out that they're fine with genocide.
Most likely, you'll be flying out
Of someplace in the south, quite close
To where the slaves had lived, not past
That statue in New York, which claims,
You now know, wholly falsely, that
The nation to its west embraces
Tired huddled masses, who are yearning
To be free. They do not do that anymore.
They circle wagons, fondle Bibles,
And eject the very people their
Ancestors were.