Yankee Doodle

It's the first of July.  The fourth looms like
A recently diagnosed terminal illness.  How
Painful it is to be called an American, filmed
In a back yard stuffing one's face with foods
And drinks which came out of factories,
Meant not to taste good, but to look okay
On a shelf, and to fortify wallets of oligarchs.
Come, wave the flag representing the slaughter
Of Indians, whipping of slaves, and the sullen
Circulation of imperial forces, ready to strike,
And the people who suffer “because they deserve
It,” the women with black eyes, the children who die,
The poor dope who angered someone in a car,
Who was armed, who said guns were a God-given
Right.  All the schools have reopened, but nothing
Is taught, as racists are hurt when they're called
What they are.  The planet is burning, but that
Matters less than the cost of the fuel to fill up
One's truck.  The holiday looms.  Let us celebrate
Shittiness.  Let us send rockets high into the sky,
And, if the world's lucky, some embers will fall,
And immolate everything here.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 34 times
Written on 2022-07-02 at 00:46

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