Listen: from a Scarlet Oak (see: state trees), the tallest
prophet expounds his "theory" of taxes and death.
I am knitting a flag of misgiving, thanks to you
and your circle of tiny stars.
A crown of bones rattles the gutter. By the time
you've read this, I will be leader of the marching band:
hup-two-three, 76 Al-Samoud missiles eat the big parade.
Choosing music for this anniversary, we build
a building to end all buildings. My pride could beat up
your pride. My plane is full of tinny-tin-tin.
On television, I re-watch a billow of smoke.
Captain Anonymous circles the house with his sharpie,
looking to mustachio my face (see: Mussolini).
Through all our devices and devising we have come to:
high fructose corn syrup. The Red Sea
is full up with Coke cans. The Coke cans, full up with burqas.
When they ask us what it's like to be American,
we can say, it's like when the scientists decided
Pluto wasn't a planet anymore because he knew,
but he was the only one who knew.
Thank you Lawrence Welk. We will never forget
your accordion and pretty dancing girls. Thank you
pretty dancing girls.
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