America on Meth

It’s a dance I say,

third world American dance

you lead. I’ll follow

pretending I know the steps

no one has ever known.

Illusion of wealth, compassion,

the leader of the band stumbles,

his flute stuck in his fascist mouth.

We are the poor, the sick, the unsung.

Illusion, delusion, and confusion

have dealt the cards we’ve never held.

The King of diamonds wins

He always wins,

just ask Sartre.