Made In America...
that old drunk bastard,
with shoes made of flesh...
who bummed your last cigarette,
and stinks of a thousand deaths.
who discovered love in the back seat
of a 64 chevy...
who lost god in the jungles,
drinking napalm to hide the shakes.
who burned a flag in front of the mission,
built bridges, houses, and dreams...
ah, but the dreams were not to be his,
and the houses he never entered.
while love left him for a faster horse,
and a carriage made of gold.
who died a hundred times
neath an old Esso sign...
who buried his dog in an open field.
who sold his soul for a bottle of cheap wine,
and fell asleep on the railroad tracks.
who staggered back into the alley,
to the cheers of mongrel rats...
whose heart reads 'made in America'...
whose eyes the devil fears!
Comments about this poem (Made In America... by Eric Cockrell )
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