Of Immigrants
On the hunt for a better life
In a land stolen from their ancestors
No fair the shrill their cries drown out
Pity this poor American,
Illegal they bellow, as they themselves drive DUI down the highway going eighty
In a 65
I see these invisible phantoms all around me
Speaking to them in broken fragments of Spanish
Working hard, at thankless tasks for the thankless
Working hard to feed their life the things they need
To send home the bread they knead
Just like me, they cry & bleed
Laugh & sneeze
Have kids to feed.
Criminals hardly they seem in the grander scheme
Just hungry souls from a barren land
With Shantytowns, and dirty streams
Where Mexican mobs cook up crack
In makeshift shacks
Where women are found raped and dead
In Juarez.
It’s a Democracy or so they say
They should be happy in their place
Know their place, their caste, their race
This is our land
This is our dream
A gift from our ancestors, yes
Our glittering prize
This beautiful America, don’t
Dare scale that fence into
Our precious home.
And soil our soul
Our pure Christian soul.
We don’t care
That you don’t have food
Live in poverty
Have no home.
Oh we might write a check to a Christian ministry
To send on our behalf food for your starving & huddled masses.
We give to Sally Struthers, OK, just so you know we care.
Unfortunate for you that you don’t hail from Cuba
Are a little boy floating in the waters off the coast, clinging to ship-wrecked hope
Fleeing not poverty, corruption but something more sinister & fierce
With which we might have an ideological bone.
A single boy we might welcome, herald, praise
His late mother, who died a hero at sea.
What if the masses were to raise a red flag
Brazen, and blazing, a hammer and sickle
And the Peoples Republic of Mexico
Our new neighbor South
And thousands upon millions become something more
Not just merely illegal but true refugees.
Yes, I pity the poor immigrant, but I pity this poor American more
The immigrant may be homeless, but this American has no soul.
