America,
I don't cry for you.
I'm sleepy.
Your noisy buttery spreads
and your lilac larynxes jiggle
in your sewer-trapped licorice wraps.
America,
I don't cry for you.
I'm cold.
Too many have sworn their shoes to the
garbage heaps of shrieking shit-faced toad buckets.
America,
I don't cry for you.
I'm weary.
You paint your omelets
with custard-green stainless
monkey noodles,
with cramped cock-sure cupcakes.
This is your mission.
This is your goal.
This is your purpose.
Stand up!
Stand up on your doghouse fashions.
Stand up on your banana powders.
Stand up on your pulpits of
lovely,
licentious,
lobster leaves.
Stand up!
America, I don't cry for you.
I don't cry.
I don't.
I.
Cry.