You line your nests with strips of cloth
Stars and stripes of nylon comfort,
That you'll choke down before you cross the bridge,
Like we choked on tear gas.
You follow the migratory instinct
Only of birds of a feather
That shines crimson like yours,
We will find you washed up on the beaches of tomorrow
Bleached in the sun and picked over by vultures
With a pile of shiny mylar from a Fourth of July pinwheel
As a synthetic headstone,
Forever engraving your patriotism.
Do you feel like a martyr, birdbrain?
Comments