America puts
on a golden crown. It weighs
a ton, but that’s just,
the cost of greatness.
A splitting headache’s a small
price to pay, a cross,
just a heart attack,
nothing transcendent like gold
floating above death.
Sacrifice bodies,
ideally others’, your sons’,
or, better, daughters’,
but, in a pinch, yours;
waste the world for the profit
of eternity.
America’s head’s
in the clouds, its ass is grass,
the lawnmower’s here.
dust 