Of Thee I Would Possibly Sing

coughing up phlegm from
too many cigarettes and a night
filled with vapid plays
that simply tell us that we
are nothing more than, at best,
greedy embeciles who look for light
in an icebox filled with 
artificial cheeses and meats
and a chance to be on television.

We've killed the moon
and killed ouselves
for a flag full of stars
that won't even wink
when the dark comes down. 
Oh America, my land of milk and honey
dill pickles and pregnant women in the rain
oh my love what have we done to ourselves
what magic have we buried in the backyard
with the old parts of things that never worked
to begin with and where is Hank Williams
and where is Lightnin Hopkins and where
my Billie Holiday can you sing your blues
and oh my love where has our heart gone?

Where is my heart, gasping in a ditch
like a soggy piece of soul
being washed away in a rain
beyond us now, beyond the poison
that we gave to it, the rain our friend
we betrayed by sending it
pieces of our own sad death? 

Oh my love, the prairies ramble
the buffalo are gone, Leadbelly is dead
oh Woody Guthrie is dead and my love
they build another fast-food joint
on the bones of these righteous things
and oh my love I'd have you back
drinking coffee in the morning
from a hot tin cup over a fire
made with our lives
Oh my love, what can we do now
as it all sings into the mire oh...
what can we do now but lift our voices
in a final song that will hopefully
let the ages know
we cared
and in the face of death
we loved.