UPDATING MR. HIAWATHA
Your sure swig swing-hat semblance,
a nomenclature so vague from the 1700's,
and before that, the stories ingrained,
they make me sure I am here. This land
had nothing, and no one came from here
who came here. Interlopers all. We had to
mythologize a thousand stories to make it
valid and sure. The waves no longer break
on Plymouth Rock. Instead, some new form
of Portobello Mushroom Cloud keeps the
feeble masses occupied. Happiness grows
like candles on a cake of excrement -
seemingly chocolate, folks, but the joke's
on you. All around the land, just under
the dirty ground, the bones of all your
dead and famished Indian bodies.
Now, 'ain't you proud' for that alone?
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