NaPoWriMo 30/30 Last one!

Whew.  That was tough.  I mean, the 20 poems I wrote were tough.  The ten haikus were not so hard.

This one's called Real America.  And it needs work.  But the other one I wrote was inconceivably depressing, so fuck that.

Real America is magical place.

Where peace, liberty and the pursuit of happiness

Are tattooed across every new soul,

And in Real America there are no rapes and there are no regrets,

Every soul is carried to term.

Women are finely-turned baby factories

Cranking out children like sausage machines,

Having finally realized that a womb is a wound

That needs to be filled!

And there are no gay men, because

As Ann Coulter says,

This (fingers fighting)

Doesn't work.

So they stopped sword-fighting with their cocks,

And went to work producing what makes America great:

An unsustainable birth rate

And a cheap, easily exploit-able workforce.

In Real America, everyone has jobs,

Non-union of course,

Organized labor is for communists

Just like minimum wage,

Health plans,

Safe workplaces,

Child labor laws,

Social security,

Overtime

And civil rights.

​

In Real America,

There are no workplace accidents,

People are made of stronger stuff,

Return to work missing fingers and limbs,

Bleed onto the factory floor until they collapse,

Smiling at the honor of dying for industry!

I regret that I have but one life to give to increase profit margins!

​

In Real America, there is no poverty,

Money trickles down like rain,

Families run outside and open their mouths

So they can be filled with pennies!

The streets are paved in gold,

The buildings are bricks of platinum,

People crap diamonds

And vomit cashiers checks.

​

In Real America,

Everything is white.

Houses are white, cars are white,

Even the black people are white!

The landscapers are...

Well...

Still Mexican,

But in Real America,

All babies are born white,

Speaking fluent English

And equipped with an innate hatred for anything different.

​

Real American protects its borders,

Wherever they might be.

Real Americans set fires across globe,

Joined hands to sing Real American songs,

As the oceans went black,

The skies grew dark,

And the whole world burned.

​

Real America exists alone,

A land unreachable by fact

One catches only flickers,

In the heroic logical leaps of talking heads,

They bobble and nod

Speak of a people who would encourage them stealing money,

Flying first-class across the world

To bang their secretaries.

A Real land of Real freedom,

Colored 1950s black-and-white,

With picture-perfect cadillacs

And boys and girls at soda shops.

​

But Real America is fragile,

All it takes is opening your eyes

And Real America

Wilts and dies.