Heck--I'm not even supposed to say "America"--it's "Norteamerica", right?
But whatever our country is ultimately called, I think we're a stew
Neither a melting pot nor a tossed salad.
I mean, all the ancient groups don't ever quite totally mix,
at least as long as there is influx--
Enclaves, and proud factions remain,
But yet they do mingle, and one group does rub off on the other--
Whether you like it or not.
And I coil back and writhe, when I think that really the driving engine
Behind this lummox, this lumbering behemoth,
Is the Western Legacy, the idea that nature and whatever we find before us
Is there to be taken, and exploited.
And now the world stands like a poor man, hands tied behind him,
Waiting for the executioner's gun to fire into the side of his weary head.
The bullet is the "products" that our corporations spew out day and night,
And the powder the cheap labor, to be found beyond the confines
Of our boundaries, and also in the conveniently illegal ones inside.
God bless America, and may he have mercy on us
For our atrocities against humankind!
But perfect or not, this is my home,
And I'm gonna catch the seventh wave, and enjoy the ride....
...Help me, somebody!......
© Copyright 2000 Daniel E. Talkington
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