Across eight fine years 
of class:
Rebuke the other, rebuke their sins
You white patriots 
en masse

Those invisible, still unemployed
No longer under foot, deceived
No longer holding heads in sand
March now from town 
to piper’s sea

Staring to the sky for bombs 
Made back in your garage
For lost dollars down on Wall Street, 
for the servers, for mirage

For ones to blame, for ones to shame
For the colors we all see
Not skin, not flag, not freedom 
but blood lost to tyranny

Lining golden pockets
Golden buttresses and busts 
Of remarkably foresighted
Nepotists and their unblinded trusts

You too will beg at his feet, 
swallow his slurs and wiles
The swamp was always made 
for friends 
of selfish crocodiles.

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