America
How beautiful you are
With your amber grains
And your fruitless plains
And you forests
Of industrial towers
Belching black clouds
And your helllike furnaces
Into rivers and streams
—Nature’s natural plumbing—
And your mountains
Of missiles
Aimed at the third world
—Who the hell cares
About them anyways?
After all
We’re the First world—
And your jungles
Of concrete
Like beautiful
Blemishes on Gaia’s
Once clean face
And your green giant
Standing watch
Over the ocean’s gate
Promising to care for poor
The Sick
Huddled masses
While you just turn
And act like
There’s nothing there
My country
Tears of thee