The mocking bird sings
a bent song about our
southern wars and corpses,
about how we live
on grits and affliction
but you know
the church changes
when the choir gets robes
and we got paved roads—
that made a difference out here
on One Oh Eight. Cousins,
we are the no generation,
suspended like hats
on the rack of every day.
We get soft pants,
wring our hands
read down to the fold
‘cos that’s all we need to know.
We stand on the land as
the continent grows numb
under our feet. And now
it’s time to vote for a sheriff.
The bad old sheriff’s a Democrat.
The one we don’t know
nothin’ about is a Republican.
We gave the new guy
the Turing test. He didn’t pass.
But who is the “most Human?”
If you’re asking, compadres,
I think you already know.