The All-American Battle Hymn

The All-American Battle Hymn For our fathers' mistakes

Far from the warmth of a cell, the walls were torn down
and armies of deceased babies, diseased out of placental wounds,
claimed victory and marched along, untouched by rebellious bombs.

Firecrackers adorned the celebrations,
while premature insects crawled through the holes
in our theories, leaving little explanations to be burned
and scattered amongst grave sites made of bone and plastic.

Collect your dead and send them back,
but we simply can't afford another ambush,
men spread out like paper dolls, their medals
scars to sell a product and/or event.

Collect your debt and load your weapons,
flags raping the soil of our enemy's home,
land so rich we can spoil it, fingers itching
religiously behind a trigger, teeth shining brightly
like a mutilated pumpkin or a mask with tiny bulbs
to replace the eyes, where we breathe through tubes.

Please don't be afraid, for we come
bearing gifts, emancipation for the price of souls
that you'll never use anyway,
and all we ask for in return is a little respect
and, perhaps, some patriotism.

War is heaven, manipulated and controlled,
delirious dancing angels fucking in the wings,
destruction, annihilation, Armageddon, complete coverage
on CNN, a moment forever wasted on necessities,
cameras catching heroes, leeches marking victims,
leaders burning villages, soldiers raping prisoners,
women and children first, selling hostages mud cheap,
hippies blaming the government, the government blaming the target,
nothing avoiding a nice piece of this precious blame pie.

And who is right?
Wait, since when was this about being right?

We've watched and listened and spoken and screamed
for centuries, but the corpses have always outnumbered the ribbons,
the bodies have continued to outnumber the little flags, and all this time
we've been staring into mirrors that have no end.

Get an order, send a bullet,
seal the envelope for those left behind,
shave your head, serve your country,
for God and for liberty and for justice
and for profit and for dignity...
or trade in your Get Out Of Jail Free card
and find a ride to Canada.

Kill a man and become a god.
Like Pilate, disguise your pride with a twitch,
hide your smile in a bloodstained mask.
Do it, goddammit, do it for your country.
Do it in the name of God, or Allah, or Buddha, or Yahweh,
or Gandhi, or whatever the hell you've labeled us now.
Do it for a gold watch and a big fat check.
Do it for the stories you'll embellish for your grandchildren.
Do it for your name in the newspaper,
preferably not in the obituary section.
Be a hero. Be a saint. Be a fucking martyr.
Be bigger than Jesus. Be bigger than the Beatles.
Be all that you can be and all that we say you are.
Be something. Do something with your life.
Don't just die a nobody.

Stop reading and go fucking kill yourself
an enemy, some big fat non-American piece of shit
that you can torture and humiliate and piss off
and piss on and high five all your buddies,
then fly home and grab yourself some nice young piece of
American ass and fuck your way into civilization,
come out fighting, both guns a-blazin', movie-style,
cuz you, by God, you earned yourself a big fat chunk of the pie.
You, my friend, are well on your way
to obtaining the American Dream.
In God we trust, praise Jesus, brother!

(Was it even worth it?)

Or you can stop reading this
and just blow your fucking brains out.
Either way, we'll always abuse your taxes.

Either way, it was fun while it lasted.