America loves drama and thumping dead things…
or extended metaphors for abusive drunks…
Ahh it’s both isn’t America?
You’re so cute the way you sit there quietly jaded and broken but smiling.
On the outside you are pristine little girl, you’ve got your smile, your angel’s wings and every thread you wear suits your every curve.
But I’m on to you America.
I know what you’re up to—
You just want to forget all that hell that follows close behind you!
Everywhere you go America— in the corners bars and buying cherry red sodas at the Chelsea druggists!
I see you— you sweep the room and scan for some face that might set you free.
Some shining single face that could take you by the hand and tell you everything is alright.
Or that its gonna be alright.
Some happy face that won’t hurt you, a pair of lips to carry you through the night.
I know what you are seeking America— I know— I seek it too.
In the drawn out parties and sad ballrooms of distended time when all the love you’ve ever felt is no more potent than an old nursery rhyme.
In the far away ghettos of frigid plateaus devoid of innuendo—
When any good thing is less than a memory—
When all your hopes and dreams taste like bitter goodbyes—
I know you America, for your truth and for your lies.
For the way you sit in the corner bar sipping on what?
The same cherry soda?
A Shirley Temple?
A Vodka tonic?
And you are neither blonde nor brunette but none of your friends are in between.
You are not Irish or Scottish, Chinese, Hindu, Nepali or Somali—
Neither West African nor South African or even English—
Not Russian or German or Welsh or Italian or Mexican or Spanish or Polish or Dutch—
Because you are all of these things America…
All of these things and more.
If you’d put that gun down I could really dig you baby.
If you took your knives and hooks out of me for a second and let me down off the rack—
If you quit putting me on your goddamn crucifix—
If you’d just never put another soul on that thing—
America, I could really love you.