Old Glory, as we call the flag,
Becomes a kind of tattered rag
For polishing the silver up
With which the wealthy like to sup.
Indeed, the glory of the past
Was too good to be true, or last,
And so, within their greedy clutch
They sullied it with every touch.
The agents of its transformation
Were men like Pence, abomination
Who let the Bill of Rights be tore
To make against dissent cheap score,
And men like Gorsuch, hypocrite
Pretending law the root of it
Consigning men to servitude—
Such agents neither just nor good.
No, Pence and Gorsuch, silver foxes,
Too shallow to be paradoxes,
Think as the Party says to think
While boasting skins of whitest pink.
The flag, and what it signified,
The freedoms for which soldiers died,
Peace, justice and equality
(Besmirched by men’s mendacity)
Become as fuel to feed the fire
Like oil rags tossed upon the pyre—
Subjects reduced from citizens
Per men like Gorsuch and like Pence.
RSS Feed