Anthem

One senses that the sun has passed
Its highest point, and, now, it falls,
And, with it, something, me, or this?
The empire, or its craven servant?
Who can say? One's poised to die.
The money's gone. The wars go on.
The flaccid wretches, white as maggots,
Mill inside their living rooms with
Fetish firearms at hand, and murmur
That they'll overturn their furniture
When Muslims come, or Mexicans,
Or lesbians, the flotsam flung by
Rising tides (and falling rates of
Maggot births), at them, to end
Their splendid reign, and, like
The movie stars they watched,
They'll crouch and shoot. They
Might prevail, and everything
Will be okay. The debts? Someday,
They'll be repaid, and maggots
Will go on forever, fat and white,
And feasting off of anything which
Comes their way, and, if so, I'm
The one to die, the turncoat maggot,
Retching in a corner by the big buffet,
The one who lets the tide come in,
And takes the bullets from the guns,
And murmurs, “Fuck America. We
Had our morning. Now, it's done,
And shadows lengthen, yours and
Mine. The end is near for both of
Us, and that's all right by me.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 75 times
Written on 2014-03-14 at 00:25

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