Amerika

Amerika                                               September 20, 2006

When I look at those Eastern hounds,

The curtains call me home, say I'm a little buffoon on steroids.

They say I'm just a little pussy cat wearing a humanoid suit,

Never gonna reach the mark without receiving the dreaded "mark."

I'm never gonna amount to one damn thing except an asterisk.

It sounds so Hawthronian, I know, indeed,

A pain so deep, I spelled it with a stitching on my chest.

But what of them?  What of them, indeed?

Will there be anything to make them bleed?

It's a crime in this land to assume that you're ever good,

For if you're good, it's not enough, and if you're bad, it ain't good.

Try to feign an upper cut, alright by them,

Because they'll stick you with a left hook.

Your best is a sin to them.

If you build a dynasty, a mogul you will be called,

Cashing in on the part of those with less.

If you hit 'em at a clip, they'll give a flip

And write columns of your cream and injected drip.

Amerika has become a law of averages,

For the dodo bird dies away,

But if you ever have plans to wear the pinstripes,

You just might be sent to the slammer.